As We Were
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: Rich, bored and unhappy, Lovino Vargas is the heir to his grandfather's wine brand. Antonio is the restless young traveller prone to attacks of claustrophobia. For them, falling in love is a journey. Literally. Spamano, Human AU, multi-chapter. Rated for language and sexual themes. *Complete with an extra FrUK chapter at the end!*
1. Chapter 1

As We Were

* * *

**A/N: Christmas exchange between Spinyfruit and I. The prompt is '**_**Travelling**_**'. This poem fits the story so perfectly, you'd think the fic was inspired by it. But actually, I stumbled upon the poem after figuring out what I wanted to write. I love nice little surprises like that xD**

**EDIT: On 8tracks, ollymolly has made a playlist for this fic. Check it out, it's absolutely gorgeous. **

* * *

_I remember you as you were in the last autumn.  
You were the grey beret and the still heart.  
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.  
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul._

_Clasping my arms like a climbing plant_  
_the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace._  
_Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning._  
_Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul._

_I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:_  
_Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house_  
_Towards which my deep longings migrated_  
_And my kisses fell, happy as embers._

_Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:_  
_Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!_  
_Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing._  
_Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul._

_-I Remember You As You Were by __Pablo Neruda_

* * *

_Today. Now._

* * *

Lovino stares after the closed door. He loves the colour of it. Dark, rich ebony brown, deep carvings and stained-glass arched windows, the gold-painted doorknob with that slight dent from where Antonio's guitar case had hit it. It's rather dramatic, Lovino thinks, but in an elegant sort of way. The entire apartment is like that. Tiny balcony, blushing roses hanging from flowerpots, cream wallpaper, gleaming kitchen. And then there's the couch, all plush pillows and fake leather. The photographs on the walls are black, white and sepia, because Antonio is an old-fashioned dork. He says the pictures make him nostalgic, and aren't all the old things in the movies sort of sepia-toned?

On the stove, a soup boils away, but silly Antonio forgot to go shopping, and they're out of shredded chicken. He'll be back soon, though. The market is only around the corner.

The house is a mess. It's Antonio's turn to clean, so _of course _it's a mess. Lovino knows he'll have to nag and cajole and shout until Antonio finally gets off his lazy behind and squares up the living room.

There's nothing to _do_. The soup is cooking away, the house is a mess, and Lovino _still _can't understand French very well, so watching TV is not an option. He's not in the mood to paint or sketch. He needs to buy new books, because he's read through his stash about five times now. One day, when they get a bigger apartment, Lovino's going to have an entire room dedicated to his library.

He snickers to himself softly as he remembers Antonio snatching his book away last night, flirting pathetically as he moved to straddle Lovino. He can be such an idiot sometimes.

Almost unconsciously, Lovino's eyes glance towards the photographs on the walls. The two of them are in every one.

It was just three years ago, really. But there's a visible change. Lovino is happier now. He looks happier. Antonio is more rested. Lovino glances towards the door again, wondering if Antonio's bought what he needs to, or if he's become distracted again.

The pictures on the walls are black, white, and sepia from when Antonio had edited them on the computer.

The memories, however, are in full colour.

* * *

_Three Years Ago_

* * *

The computer glares at Lovino, facts and numbers and pictures of wine bottles and grapes on the screen. Lovino can barely understand what he's doing. His eyes hurt. His head hurts. He's exhausted. His fingers tap away at the keyboard automatically. The deep red drink in his glass is untouched.

"Lovi, maybe you should take a break."

Feli's voice makes him turn away from the computer and blink warily at his brother. Feliciano, wearing an Armani suit with his hair neatly combed, is glancing at a piece of paper in his hands. He smiles at Lovino, and adds, "You look like death."

"Gee, thanks."

Feli laughs, and it's an easy laugh Lovino can't ever seem to create for himself. "You've been working non-stop for what – thirty-six hours? Go home and get some sleep."

"What are you all dressed up for?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Ve~ I must have. Anyway, remember those Germans Grandpa wanted to partner with? They're in Rome for two days, and I'm going to go meet them! It's going to be so exciting. If this works out, our presence in Germany will increase tenfold!"

Ah, yes. That big wine brand in Germany. Grandpa had been talking about them almost obsessively for weeks.

"Anyway," Feliciano says, "How are things going at your end?"

"What?" Lovino replies, his mind drifting between his tiredness and his headache. "Oh." He glances back at the computer. "Oh," he says again. "Five hundred cases of the Gavi should be arriving in Rome tomorrow."

"What are you drinking?" Feli suddenly asks, gesturing to the untouched wine glass next to the computer.

Lovino's smirk is slight, but very evil. "Casa Vinicola Zonin." A rival wine producer.

Feliciano gasps. "You – _no_!"

"Relax, would you? It's _our _Valpolicella. And I haven't had a sip yet. Drink it, if you want."

Feliciano narrows his eyes. "Are you sick?"

"I have a headache."

"You really should sleep. I'll text Grandpa, don't worry."

And Lovino does not pass up that offer, because frankly, he's never cared about wine a day in his life, he hates his job, he hates his life, and he hates his headache. When he drives his Alfa Romeo back to their estate, it's with the familiar exhaustion that weighs him down, that never seems to go away. No amount of sleep would fix this.

Lovino is deflated.

At only twenty-seven, Lovino feels like he's eighty.

The days pass by. They always seem to do that. The car, the house, the people, the work, it's always the same. Wine tastings disgust him. He hates the drink. The women bore him. They're only with him for the money. And he's only with them, because…well, he's not sure why, actually. Fucking them just gives him something to do.

It's a cage. Or a buffering video. Or a broken record.

It's nothing.

And maybe it's becoming obvious now, because Feliciano keeps shooting him these worried glances when he thinks Lovino's not looking. But the truth is, Lovino's felt like this since he joined the family business. Like his soul is being suffocated by a pillow, and there's nothing he can do about it.

Lovino is experimenting with a new kind of pasta sauce when Feliciano approaches him from behind. It's Saturday, and Lovino just loves making lunch on the weekends. "Are you all right?" Feli asks, his voice subdued and gentle, as though he expects Lovino to burst into hysterical tears and storm out of the room with his hands on his face.

Lovino turns, raising an eyebrow. "Uh…yeah?"

Feli is not convinced. He frowns, chews his bottom lip, and says, "I don't know…I just get the feeling you're not…happy." A pause, and then he adds, "Is something the matter?" Another pause, and he says, "I heard you broke up with…uh, what's her name? Al…Alessa?"

"Alfonsina," Lovino corrects gently, a small smile on his face. He doesn't blame Feli. All of them sound the same after a point. "Yeah, I broke up with her on Wednesday." He turns back to the pizza sauce, tentatively tasting it with a spoon. "Needs more salt, I think."

"What happened? I liked her!"

"She was boring."

"You say that about all of them. What about…what about that fellow you met at Grandpa's work party? You seemed to like him."

"Yeah. Bartolomeo something. We're getting dinner tomorrow. Might not come home at all."

Feliciano makes a face, and Lovino laughs. Feli doesn't have a problem with sex in itself – he gets a lot of it. But the idea of _Lovino _sleeping around bothers him. It's hilarious.

"But still," Feliciano presses. "I get the feeling you're not happy. Did you have a fight with someone?"

Lovino shrugs. "Not really. I don't…I mean…I guess I'm just tired." It's not a lie, that's for sure.

"Oh. Yeah, well, you've been killing yourself with work over the last year." Feliciano nods sagely, and Lovino rolls his eyes. For Feli, things are so simple. They fit in such perfect boxes. "You should take some time off. How long has it been since you actually had a vacation?"

"Like that's going to help," Lovino mutters, a random jolt of anger making him stir the sauce with too much vehemence. Some of it splashes out of the bowl. Inwardly, he cusses. Food is love. Food needs to be treated with gentle hands. It is a child that needs to be nurtured.

"Of course it will! A nice two-week holiday. Somewhere you can just relax. Ooh, how about Hawaii? Or Bora Bora? Or –"

"I'm not into tropical islands, thanks."

"Oh, okay. How about –"

"I'm not into trekking or nature stuff either."

"Oh. How about –"

"Feli, just drop it, okay?"

But naturally, Feli doesn't drop it. Over dinner, Grandpa says, "Feli was telling me you wanted a vacation. You've been working nonstop, Lovi, you deserve one."

"God," Lovino says, rolling his eyes in a slow, deliberate, emphatic way. "I don't need a vacation."

The next week, Lovino finds a single ticket inside an envelope. It's dated for October. Destination: Paris, France. And a note, too. _Dear Lovi~ Sorry for not telling you! But Grandpa wanted me to book this ticket for you as a surprise! Have fun! I'm sorry I can't come :( But even if you do go alone, I'm sure you'll have a good time! DON'T WORK when you get there. THIS IS A HOLIDAY. I love you! From your favourite (and only) brother, Feli~_

Lovino stares at the ticket for a long minute, and then he groans.

* * *

Lovino has worked in the wine industry long enough to see Paris as not a popular vacation spot, but a place for work. He's travelled to France too many times, always for meetings and inspections and tastings. When he gets off the plane at Charles de Gaulle airport, takes a taxi and goes to his hotel, Lovino is a little bit impressed with the _yellowness _of the city.

He loves colour. He always has. And he's never seen Paris in autumn. Everything seems to be basking in golden light. The sun shoots off the leaves, making yellow seem yellower, red seem redder, orange seem oranger. It's like a postcard. Trees, schoolchildren, the Eiffel Tower.

Feliciano's taken care of all the arrangements. It's one of the fanciest hotels in the city, and Lovino's room is right at the top. He watches night fall. Millions of lights bursting like a swarm of fireflies over Paris.

He's never actually _seen_ the city before.

Lovino has only one agenda for tomorrow.

He's going to be a tourist.

* * *

Lovino's inner life is more than a little dramatic. For one, he listens to a lot of classical music; what's Mozart without a bit of drama? He's read all the books in the list of western literary canon. He loves his art to be bursting with colour and blinding movement, ferocious emotion that can consume the viewer whole. He dresses well, thank you very much. His own feelings are always chaotic and extreme, although he tries his best to dismiss and suppress them, because it isn't good for business. And then there's food. Lovino is very, very particular about his food. It must have _just _the right flavours and textures, its smell must be composed perfectly. It must be the right temperature. He is mathematically obsessive about his food.

He glances through the dinner menu. It's in French, with English translations in smaller type. A yellow-coloured card with brown swirly font. The waiter asks if he'd like something to drink. "Perhaps some wine, sir? Allow me to recommend a 2006 Vargas – it's a fantastic red –"

"No," Lovino says firmly, slamming the menu down with unnecessary force. "I _do not_ want wine. _Especially_ not a Vargas. Just…just get me a beer or something. Budweiser. You have that?"

The waiter looks like he's been personally insulted. But he plasters on the smile of someone working in the hospitality business and says, "Of course. Er…one bottle of Budweiser. What would you like to eat, sir?"

Pasta? Pizza? But no, he's in France, for pity's sake. Hesitantly, he picks up the menu card again and glances through all the French food in the list. "…What do you recommend?"

"Well, our chef makes an excellent _blanquette de veau_…although if I may, sir, it goes excellently with red Bordeaux."

"No wine," Lovino repeats. "But yes, that sounds good. I'll have one of that." He's not very good at making French food, but he does remember learning how to make this in cooking school. It's a vague memory. He dismisses it easily.

It's not like this stupid…vacation…thing will make a difference. It's not like it'll solve anything. Lovino is unhappy. It's as simple as that. And he has been for over three years now. When his Grandfather told him to join the family business. What choice did Lovino have? He'd wanted to be a chef. He'd always wanted that. But the business hadn't been doing so well, and Lovino hadn't the heart to refuse.

Now, he's stuck.

On paper, he's a qualified chef. A good one, too. But he's stuck in this stupid hateful job. He can leave now, if he wants. The company is fine. But it's become such an ingrained part of his life…Lovino wonders if he can even survive on his own. Maybe he isn't destined to be a chef after all.

The dinner is fantastic, of course.

(But Lovino can probably cook it better.)

* * *

The morning is cold. Lovino throws on another jacket and a smart maroon scarf. It really is a yellow city. _Beautiful_, he thinks as he walks down one footpath after another. It's only a little after dawn. The sky is a gorgeous pink-golden-purple-blue, one shade fading into the next, an occasional cloud floating by. In the distance, he can see the Tower.

He returns to the hotel after a twenty-minute stroll, orders a light breakfast and attempts to read a French newspaper. Work has compelled him to learn the language, although he's terrible at it. He cannot wrap his tongue around the pronunciations, even though some of the words are vaguely similar. The grammar, too, confuses him. He tries an English newspaper next, because he actually does know _that_.

Just more bad news about terrorism and rioting and the economy. He shuts the newspaper before he even gets to the Funnies page. Staring down into his espresso, Lovino tries to give himself a pep talk. _You're on vacation in one of the most beautiful cities in the world – uh, well, not as beautiful as Rome…but anyway, it's supposed to be pretty. And it's autumn, so lots of nice colours. And it's off-season, so fewer tourists. And you're alone, so nobody will annoy you. This is going to be fun. You are going to enjoy yourself._

* * *

His heart starts to sink the closer he gets to the Eiffel Tower. Lovino is Italian. He's travelled to all the greatest wine destinations in Europe. He's been to all the supposedly romantic cities. Alone. But…still. This is…different. Everywhere he looks, there were couples hanging off each other's arms and sucking faces. Paris _sells _love. Paris _sells _the idea of beauty and grace and romance.

Maybe coming here alone is a bad idea. He should have brought that Bartolomeo fellow along. Or Alfonsina. Or Maria. Or…or..what's that other guy's name? He's great in bed, and he doesn't talk much. He would have been good company, too.

Lovino is more aware of colour than he is of sound, so he doesn't immediately hear the guitar. He's very, very close to the Tower, staring up at it as the grey skies act as a backdrop. So dramatic. A breeze. Red leaves in the wind.

And then he hears the tune. Lovino doesn't recognise it. It's something cheeky and vaguely Latin. Fast paced. Flirty. He angles his head to the source of the noise. It's a man standing just ten feet in front of him. A busker.

What an _interesting _busker.

Flash of green eyes, like shimmering ocean water. Slightly overgrown hair, tousled and uncombed. Clothes – faded, torn, patched, stained, mismatched and awkward. Black guitar case by his feet. Tanned face. A voice lilting with humour and affection. He's singing in a language Lovino recognises instantly as Spanish.

He takes one step closer and then another.

The busker notices. His eyes – so, so, so _green_ – raise slightly to meet his. His smile broadens. The music picks up. Lovino just stares. He's not sure what to do. Now that he's been spotted, of course, he has to give the man _some _money. Nobody else seems to care. They're just walking past him. Don't they see how talented he is? How…how…_attractive _he is?

Attractive, really? Some random busker on the street?

Lovino takes another step forward. The busker's eyes literally sparkle. And Lovino knows this battle is lost even before it begun. Oh, forget the denial. He marches up, takes out a few Euros, and drops it into the open guitar case.

The busker nods at him and then breathlessly says, "_Gracias_! You are too kind!"

And Lovino feels a blush coming on. "Well, it's…it's whatever. You're talented."

The man looks like he's been gifted a box of chocolates. His face lights up, and Lovino swears he sees golden sparks in his eyes, as though they're two tiny suns within his body. A massive grin plasters onto his face, and he lowers his guitar slightly, saying, "That's so sweet! Thank you! Would you like me to sing a song for you?"

Lovino kicks the ground and lowers his eyes, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "No…it's fine. Don't bother."

"Oh come on. I know many songs! In many languages! You pick!"

Lovino looks up just a little. "Welll…okay, whatever. Fine. Do you know Dean Martin?"

"Yes! He's amazing."

"How about…how about _That's Amore_. I like that song."

"Well, it is a classic. I like it too." And he begins to strum. It sounds a little strange on this kind of guitar, but his voice is clear and strong. He sings it with so much _humour_, so much mischievous attitude. Lovino finds himself smiling.

"You have a wonderful smile," the busker says when the song ends. Lovino bites the inside of his cheek as he drops more money into the guitar case.

"That's a creepy thing to say."

"Is it?" he tilts his head to one side, regarding Lovino curiously.

_Yes, especially since your smile is way better. _"Yeah." A pause. "Are you Spanish or something?"

"How did you know?"

"It's a bit obvious."

The busker's face falls. It happens so quickly that Lovino almost thinks he's imagined it. But one second, the man is all smiles and sunshine, next he's faltering gloom. It's such a small moment that it's almost like it didn't happen, and when Lovino blinks, the expression is gone, replaced with that bright toothy grin. "I guess that's true," the busker says. "I'm Antonio. How about you?"

"Lovino," he replies automatically, not supplying his last name. People tend to freak out when they hear 'Vargas'. Vargas equals money in this continent. Lovino looks up absently, staring at the Tower right above them. "It's like France's dick, don't you think?"

"Huh?" and Antonio's eyes turn heavenwards. "Oh, you mean the Eiffel Tower?"

"Yeah."

"That's interesting. I never thought of it that way! That's funny."

Lovino looks back at Antonio, weighing the pros and cons. But he's on holiday, and dammit, he wants to just…to just…

To just…

_Rip through his wrapping paper. Tear at his chains. Break his castle walls. And fly. _

"Do you want to see it with me?"

"What?" Antonio blinks, and then his smile widens, if that's even possible.

Lovino nods. He's has two weeks to be crazy. Two weeks to break down his Perfect Grandson façade. And that's what he's going to do. Starting with Antonio. Seeing the Eiffel Tower together, having a quick fuck somewhere, and moving on. He's never just slept with someone like that before. Without at least two dates. Especially not some random person on the street. And _so what _if it's a stupid risk to take. _So what?_

"I would love to! I have no-one to hang out with right now, and that's sort of depressing in a city like Paris."

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

It's at the very top that Lovino says, "Apparently, Guy de Maupassant hated the Tower. He used to eat at the only place he couldn't see it – the Tower's restaurant itself."

"Why would he hate the Eiffel Tower!? It's so beautiful!"

Lovino glances at him, a small grin on his face. But he says nothing. It's more interesting to study Antonio. Carefully, he reaches out and links his little finger with Antonio's. The Spaniard's eyes widen – oh, those perfect green eyes – and he looks down at his hand. He glances up at Lovino, and his smile is softer, shyer, more hesitant.

Lovino glances away, a blush on his face, trying to hide his smirk. Seduction is such a fun game. And with Antonio, it seems just more interesting. He's like that. Lovino can tell. He's…different. There's more to him than meets the eye, and Lovino wants to _know._ It's not just his appearance. It's more like…well, Lovino gets bored with his bedfellows very quickly, because they always fail to hold his attention. Antonio…well, at least for now, he has Lovino's undivided focus.

* * *

Antonio is looking out into the city. Paris opens up like a waiting jaw, and Lovino can see near-literal hunger in his eyes. His fists are clenched to his side as he looks out into the view. Green grass, yellow city, golden sunlight, it's all like a roll of an old movie. Lovino feels thrown back in time. Perhaps the twenties, where Paris was home to the Lost Generation. It's pretty crowded up here and the view is fantastic, but Antonio is a piece of art Lovino just can't look away from.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I'm scared of heights," Antonio replies easily, and it's true – he does look a little pale.

Lovino links his arm with Antonio's. "Don't be." He feels daring and dangerous. He feels like throwing himself off the Tower, expecting to fly. He feels like zooming through the streets of Paris with a motorcycle at speeds no human could ever reach. Lovino is chaos, a wild thing desperate for release. And he's never been a _shy _lover. He's practiced and tactful. He knows just how to bed Antonio. Lovino will have fucked him before sundown.

"What's your full name?" Antonio asks after a beat.

"Does it matter?" He doesn't care for this whole name business. Lovino Vargas, Antonio Whatever. They're just human bodies, essentially. That's what's important right now.

"All mysterious," Antonio jokes.

"You bet."

They sit at the Tower's restaurant, and Lovino decides to foot the bill. Antonio looks too poor to pay, anyway. "What do you do?" he asks Lovino.

"I'm in the wine industry."

"Oh wow! So you must be very particular about the wine you drink." Antonio glances at the waiter, who smiles easily.

"I'm sure we have a wine here you will find satisfactory," the waiter says, a charming smile and a menu card in his hands.

"No. I'm fine with water, thanks." Lovino looks through the menu. "And I'll have this." He points at something written in French, but his eyes are fixed on Antonio's. They read through the menu curiously, his lips pursing, his eyebrows crinkled in concentration.

Antonio turns to the waiter, and in perfect French, asks for a steak.

"You know French?" Lovino asks, raising an eyebrow at the man when the waiter leaves.

"_Si_!" Antonio laughs. "And lots of other languages! I know a bit of Portuguese and Dutch, I know English – obviously, I'm speaking it! – I know French and German very well. I'm learning Hindi online, although the script and the pronunciations are a bit difficult. But that'll get better with practice, I'm sure."

"Wait, why do you know these languages?"

"Oh! That's because I travel. A _lot_." He pauses for dramatic effect, and then he leans forward, his eyes and grin widening. "I've been to all the continents except Antarctica."

"_What_?"

"Yes!" Antonio says in pure joy, clapping his hands together. "I've been all over Western Europe, of course. I've even been to Estonia and Latvia. I've been to Brazil and Argentina. Such beautiful places. I've seen New York and California! I love it! And Canada – although there's the funny story where I almost forgot when my flight was - and I've seen China, India and Japan. And oh! Morocco and Kenya and Australia! And _oh_, I've seen Israel. Israel was…something else, seriously."

Lovino just gapes at him. Antonio…a traveller. Yes, he can see it. Antonio seems like the sort. "How the hell do you fund that sort of lifestyle?"

"I spend six months in Spain, working, and the next six months blowing it up in another country!" And Antonio laughs, throwing his head back. Lovino closes his eyes to the sound. It's extremely invigorating. It's the sort of laugh that only free people can muster. Antonio quietens and Lovino opens his eyes to see the Spaniard say, "I've actually been to France several times. One of my closest friends is French. I'm actually staying with him right now. He runs a restaurant, so the food at his place is always excellent!"

"Wow," Lovino mumbles, looking at the tablecloth. He's starting to feel more than a little jealous. "What do you do?"

"Oh, you mean work? Lots. It's a mess." He chuckles to himself. "I work at KFC, I teach guitar, I deliver flowers, and I write travel articles for newspapers. I actually have a blog where I write about my travel experiences. And it has lots of pretty pictures, too! Although my camera is dead so I left it at Francis's place to charge. Oh – Francis is the friend I'd mentioned."

"Wow," Lovino says again, because he can't imagine living like that. It seems like almost a hand-to-mouth existence. "That's…I mean…"

Suddenly, Antonio seems a hundred times more attractive than he was before.

"It's crazy. It's exhausting. I swear I once almost passed out in a canal in Amsterdam, I was _that _tired. But I love it! You get to meet such wonderful people. Like you!"

Lovino's face is red, he just knows it.

"Like in Amsterdam, I met Emma! She was so sweet. She let me stay at her place. Her brother wasn't too happy, but it was only for the night, anyway."

"Girlfriend?" Lovino asks, because it suddenly occurs to him that perhaps Antonio isn't interested in men. Although it's a silly thought, because he's been responding positively to all of Lovino's little moves.

"What, _Emma_?" he laughs as though the idea is absurd. "Please, no. That would just be weird. I'm not even…you know, attracted to her. Or women in general." And he looks at Lovino knowingly. He understands _exactly _what Lovino has in mind, and he's comfortable with that. Lovino watches his green eyes sharpen and turn a little more…lustful?

They leave the restaurant before even their food arrives.

In Lovino's hotel room, he does not let Antonio take control. This vacation is about _him _letting go of everything. He possesses and fills Antonio, his toes curling in pleasure at every gasp and moan and whimper the Spaniard makes. It's as slow as it is fast, it's desperate and forceful, and yet gentle, because Antonio has an innate softness about him, and Lovino doesn't want to abuse that.

When it's all over, Lovino lies next to him, both of them panting and sticky and hot. They don't say a word. They must have dozed off eventually, because Lovino is aware of waking up, and Antonio is fully clothed, sitting at the far end of the room, staring at view from the window, watching sunset fall on the city. His eyes are far away.

"I should go," he says quietly when he hears the covers rustle. He glances at Lovino, who's still naked and sweaty and disgusting, as though waiting for approval of this idea.

"It would be for the best," Lovino says after a moment.

"I had a really good time," Antonio affirms, smiling slightly. It's as tender as it is sad.

"Me too. That was great."

Antonio lets out a soft exhale. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He walks up to Lovino and plants a soft kiss on his forehead. "Goodbye."

"Bye."

Lovino watches him move across the room, slip on his shoes, and offer one final parting smile. He picks up his guitar case, turns the doorknob, and walks out. The door closes, and Lovino is alone.

* * *

**A/N: Don't ask me how long this is going to be, because I honestly don't know. I'm winging it. This whole style of writing and even content is new for me. Tell me how I did! **

**Oh, and if you guys are looking out for more Spamano goodness, check out the previous gift exchange between Spinyfruit and I! They're called **_**The Rose Family **_**by yours truly, and **_**Before the Snow Falls **_**by Spinyfruit. **

**I really do encourage you to check out Spinyfruit's fics. She's **_**amazing**_**, and if you like Spamano (or Francis!), you NEED to read her stories. **

**Thanks for checking this fic out! I should be updating it very soon! :3 Please review! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **

**Madeline Williams – Nyo!Canada. Although for the purposes of this fic, her nationality is **_**French. **_

**David – Random unimportant OC who exists for literally one scene and has literally one line.**

* * *

_Today. Now._

* * *

Antonio can't help but forget, sometimes. Lovi usually has such a long list of things he wants to buy from the market. All of them somehow involve foods Antonio hasn't even heard of, things he didn't even know existed. ("Truffles? Oh, you mean the pretty sleeves that those old dress shirts had, right?" "No, you moron! Those are called _ruffles_!") Now, however, he's making soup. Simple soup. Although nothing is ever simple with Lovi and food. The two are intrinsically combined. Antonio strongly believes that Lovi's heart is shaped like a tomato. He loves food just _that _much.

Tomatoes. He stares at them in the supermarket aisle. There's a middle-aged woman just up ahead, scanning the dairy section. But Antonio has stopped, picking up one perfectly red fruit and watching his reflection in its polished skin. Lovi had wanted him to buy shredded chicken, but there are small things that remind him of three years ago, and each time, the memories threaten to swallow him whole.

Not that he minds. He could swim all day in those memories.

* * *

_Three years ago_

* * *

Antonio is playing with a rolling pin. He's sitting at the dining table of his Francis's apartment. It's a cute little thing with a ton of charm. Cream walls, flowers, wine cabinet, elaborately-stocked kitchen, one small bedroom and a fold-out sofa in front of the TV. He moves the rolling pin across a blue placemat and then moves it back, repeating the motion again and again, until his friend turns around from where he's cooking and says, "Toni, I need that now."

"Hmm?" Antonio says, glancing up.

"What's with you today?" Francis has an unsettled look on his face. He's worried because he needs to leave the house in fifteen minutes, and Antonio is acting like his dog just died. Antonio knows he's being a bit of a downer. He really doesn't want to mess up Francis's evening. But. But.

"I hate sleeping around," Antonio says finally, slumping back in his chair.

The doorbell rings.

"Oh, come now," Francis mutters to himself, wiping his hands on his apron as he goes to answer it. Antonio hears him say, "Gilbert!" before a loud German voice floods into the otherwise quiet apartment.

Antonio grins slightly as his other friend approaches. "Toni!" Gilbert cries, and they hug. In fact, Gilbert holds on for a second longer than expected, and when he pulls back, there's an almost peaceful look in his red eyes. Antonio's heart breaks. He doesn't want to hurt his friend. He hasn't seen Gilbert in a year, but this meeting will not be a long one.

There is too much going on. Too much going on in his mind. Too much. Too much. Too much.

"So, what were you saying about sleeping around?" Francis asks.

"What? Oh, this seems like a good conversation." Gilbert pulls out a beer from Francis's fridge and sits down on the couch. Antonio looks between the Frenchman at the stove and the German, feeling slightly trapped. He pulls awkwardly at his collar.

"I allowed myself to get seduced by this really attractive guy today," Antonio begins simply. Francis stops using the rolling pin and Gilbert wolf-whistles. It makes the Spaniard smile slightly. "I think he was Italian or something. He didn't say, but I've heard that accent a lot when I was in Florence. Anyway, his name was Lovino."

"Well, good for you," Francis says with a smirk in his voice. "Sleeping with a sexy Italian in Paris. _C'est parfait, non_?"

"No, it's not perfect. I feel a bit…I don't know, lonely, I guess. I hate it when I do that. I hate it one-time things like this."

"Oh, come on," Gilbert says. "It's okay. Did you enjoy it, at least?"

"Of course I did."

"Of course he did. He had sex. With an Italian. In Paris. There's no way that wasn't _extraordinary_." Francis waves a spatula in the air as though it were a magic wand.

Antonio stands, moving towards the window. It's night now. Cute little French streets and flowers and smells and cobbled footpaths and cars and Francis and Gilbert and food and wine and perfume and it's all so overwhelming and the Eiffel Tower is somewhere in the distance and it's watching over him and it's too much too much too much too much toomuchtoomuchtoomuch—

"I need to go."

"What?" Gilbert asks, and Francis glances at Antonio.

"Out. Of here. Somewhere. Anywhere. Not Paris." Antonio turns wildly back to face his friends. "Out. Somewhere," he repeats. "I was thinking about it today. Lovino and I saw the Eiffel Tower together, and I was thinking, _well, I've seen it twenty times already_. The view never changes. Nothing ever changes. Paris is so stagnant."

"Hey!" Francis protests, frowning in fake anger.

"I need to go. Out. I need to go, I need to go, I need to go."

"All right, all right." Gilbert gets up and puts his hands in front of him, a motion to pacify Antonio. "Just calm down. Where do you want to go?"

Antonio shrugs. "Anywhere. Just out of this city. Maybe Sweden, I don't know."

"_Just out of this city – maybe Sweden_!" Francis mocks, rolling his eyes and turning back to the stove. "There are a hundred things wrong with that idea, starting with money. Lord knows you don't have much of it. And Sweden, _mon ami_, is expensive. Not to mention extreme. Who even thinks of leaving Paris for Sweden? What's the capital of Sweden, anyway?"

"Stockholm, Francis," Antonio replies dryly. "I mean, come on. How do you not know that?"

"I forget! I'm not like you! You know every capital in the world!"

"Look, guys, no – Francis, shut up! Toni, just let's all calm down for a second. You've been in Paris for only three days." Gilbert is not very good at being the mediator, but he has a point. Antonio bites his bottom lip. "Check out the museums and the monuments and stuff."

"Ugh, I've done that so many times I could probably be a tour guide myself."

"Well, you could always do something off the beaten track. Maybe explore the lesser known parts of Paris," Francis suggests.

"No! I've done that! Whatever you suggest, I've done that." Antonio runs a hand through his hair. "No, it's time to go. I need to go _now_. Coming here was a bad idea. I should have gone somewhere else…somewhere…like maybe North Korea or something…somewhere I haven't been."

"First Sweden, now North Korea," Gilbert mutters.

"Next he'll say Mars."

"Don't give him ideas."

"Guys, I need help here," Antonio snaps, finally losing control of his emotion. He's on the verge of panic, though. He's been to Paris one too many times. He won't be coming back here for another five years, best friends be damned.

"Okay, okay, look," Francis says gently, turning off the stove and putting his hands on Antonio's shoulders. "You can't go anywhere right now. Whatever you plan to do, you're going to do it in the morning, right? Now here's my idea. Why don't you go check out Normandy? You've only been there once, right? There's a lot left to explore. A very dear friend of mine runs a nice hotel there – very cheap, very comfortable. If she knows you're my _ami_, she'll treat you really well. Do you want me to call and tell her you're coming?"

Antonio looks right into Francis's blue eyes. They're a very clear shade, almost like polished stone. He can sometimes imagine the whole universe's wisdom residing within them. Francis is unusually sagacious, despite appearing shallow. His voice is also very calming. It's helped Antonio in the past, and it helps him now. He loves the sound of Francis's voice. It's as easy as a breeze, and yet is as firm as an anchor. Antonio feels his heartbeat slow and he realises he's not breathing quite as rapidly. "Normandy," he says, as thought the word is new to him.

"You can borrow my car," Gilbert offers, and Antonio looks to his direction, giving him a weak, shaky smile.

"That sounds good. Thank you."

"No problem. Now can we all just calm down?"

"_Oui_, Gil's right. Wear something more sensible, Toni. We're going to the restaurant together. I don't want you sitting here alone, feeling miserable. Carry your guitar. I'd like you to play something tonight. The customers always love you."

"Call your friend first," Antonio says, crossing his arms. His tone leaves no room for argument.

Francis rolls his eyes. "Oh, all right." He takes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his contact list, and puts the mobile to his ear. He's speaking in rapid French, but Antonio can discern quite a bit of what he's saying. "Ah, Jeanne, so nice to speak to you again! Yes, yes, lovely, and how about you? Yes, those were very exciting days, no? Definitely, definitely, we must meet up sometime. Yes, I know. Jeanne, I actually called you for a favour. It's nothing big. A friend of mine should be arriving in Normandy tomorrow. His name is Antonio – Antonio Fernandez Carriedo – and I wondered if you could help him feel a bit welcome? Yes, he'll be alone. One room should be good. Oh, I see. But isn't it off-season? Ah, yes, that can be a bother. Oh, you can?! Excellent, thank you. That should be perfect. You're a saint, my dear. I really do appreciate it." His voice drops now, and Antonio gets the feeling Francis is becoming a bit intimate over the phone. He looks away, to Gilbert, who's started on his second beer.

"I feel better," Antonio says, sitting on the couch next to the German. It's not even surprising to him that his two best friends are from different countries. Gilbert moved to France after he fell in love with Madeline Williams in their college days. They'd both studied in Canada, and when Gilbert realised he couldn't see her anymore, he decided to learn French and move to Paris with her. Antonio had met him and Francis at Francis's restaurant the first time he'd travelled to the city.

Gilbert rolls his eyes and chuckles. "You're a piece of work, seriously."

"You won't need the car, though?"

"Maddie's got hers. And it's okay, really. You're going to drive back here anyway to fly out of France, right?"

Antonio makes a face at the prospect of driving back to Paris. "I think so."

"Then that's how I'll get my car back! Don't worry, really. Just don't wreck it and we're good."

"Thanks. Really, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. I just need to get out of here, you know?"

"Why?" Gilbert asks although he already knows.

Antonio looks away, pulls at his collar, and replies, "Because I can't breathe."

* * *

Francis's restaurant is called _Joie de Vivre_ and is a little bit different than most. It's a very upmarket establishment – there's no doubt about that. But it's _fun_. It's an adorable place with cream walls and flowers and wooden tables, yellow lights hanging from the ceiling and black-and-white pictures of yesteryear French icons. An open space is slightly elevated - a stage, with large speakers and musical instruments. There's also a garden with more tables and yellow fairy lights and freshly mowed grass. Almost every night, Francis has performers. Singers, comedians, dancers, and sometimes even karaoke. It's popular because it's nothing like the other Michelin Star restaurants in Paris. It doesn't demand expensive jewellery and designer clothes on its customers. It only wants people to have a good time.

At least, that's what Francis says.

It's right in the middle of dinner rush when Francis drives the three of them there, and he tells a waiter to make them comfortable as he dashes to the kitchen to oversee what's happening. Francis is a stellar chef himself, but his job usually involves little cooking and more managing. The restaurant is almost full, although Antonio and Gilbert get a special table outdoors, and they take it, despite the nip in the air. Arthur is sitting not too far away.

Antonio has never, ever, ever understood the relationship between Arthur and Francis. Francis says they grew up together, Arthur says they've hated each other since childhood. Francis flirts with Arthur all the time and Arthur yells at him for it – but then flirts right back. But they're not dating, because Arthur always claims to be sleeping with some American named Alfred and Francis has a new woman in bed every weekend. And there are times when they act like each other's mothers. This usually happens when Francis falls sick, or when Arthur attempts to use the stove in the restaurant's kitchens. They often help each other get laid with someone else, but then Francis also tells anyone who cares to listen that he an Arthur are sworn to each other. Arthur shouts at him, but doesn't deny it. Not to mention, Arthur's always at the restaurant. Every night. During dinner rush. That's his usual table, at the corner of the lawn. It's reserved for him. Francis even has Arthur's name carved into the wood.

Arthur is drinking his usual beer and reading a book. He looks so out of place in France. He's always dressed in the most plain clothes, in such shocking contrast to everyone else around him. Then again, all of Antonio's clothes are shabby and patched-up. He's not one to talk.

"How have you been?" Antonio asks Gilbert. The German has been travelling for work, and this is really their first meeting since Antonio's been here. He hasn't seen Gilbert all year.

"Good, good," Gilbert replies as he takes a sip of his beer. "Maddie and I are trying to fix a wedding date. That's causing a bit of drama!" he laughs and rolls his eyes. "I still think it's awesome if we just stay together without being married. Breaks convention and all of that." His eyes glitter and twinkle with amusement. "But she doesn't want to hear of it."

"Aw, that's so sweet! Would you be getting married this year, though?"

"Probably not. She wants a spring wedding. It's already October. And then there's the eternal question of _where _to get married. Have you tried to book a place in Paris in spring? Literally the whole world decides it's a good romantic destination for a wedding. Not that I can blame them. But it's fucking expensive and they're probably all taken, anyway. Plus, Ludwig was not-so-subtly suggesting we should do it in Berlin."

"Berlin is a good idea." Of course it is. He's only been to Berlin about three times, so he can still handle it there. If they decide to get married in Paris next year, he won't be able to come. It'll be too suffocating.

"Try convincing Maddie."

Antonio laughs along with Gilbert. Francis has promised them that anything they order is on the house, so Antonio indulges in a little wine. He knows he's going to have to play his guitar soon, but after the day he's had, he can use a bit of liquid courage. Wine would do well. The waiter recommends a Vargas 2001 and then says something technical about wooded flavour and dry texture which Antonio doesn't quite understand, but the waiter assures him of the choice, and Antonio just goes along with it.

"Remind me, I need to go back and plan for Normandy," says Antonio after his drink arrives.

"Oh, I won't have to. You'll remember," Gilbert replies.

And that's true too.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Francis comes out of the kitchen and nods at Antonio. That's his signal. He picks up his guitar and walks slowly inside, to the stage. It might be off-season, but the restaurant is packed. Most of these people are French, though, and he can spot only a few tourists from maybe China or Japan. Antonio approaches the mic. It's just him – no band. "Hola, everyone!" he says, and there's a clap. Some say 'Allo!' in response.

Antonio doesn't know why everyone likes him so much. He isn't doing anything special. Francis says it's because he's charming and handsome and cheerful, and all of that is rather endearing. Francis also says he's talented and he has stage presence. Antonio can't really agree or disagree. If that's what Francis says, then that's good, right? It's definitely a decent way to earn money. Francis always pays him handsomely for performing here.

"What do you want to listen to tonight?" he calls into the mic, and there's a chorus of responses. He doesn't really understand what they're saying, so he goes on, "I have an idea. Since it's a beautiful evening in beautiful Paris – and let's face it, all of us are feeling at least a little romantic, no?" he winks cheekily, and the couples – for there are at least eight couples here right now – blush and laugh. "Why not start with a love song?" And then the first thing he can think of is _That's Amore_, because that's what Lovino had wanted him to play earlier today, and he can still taste Lovino on his tongue, despite the wine he's just had. "I know just what to play." Antonio feels like the chirp in his voice has lessened just a bit.

When he sings the song, it's with Lovino in mind. This is exactly why he hates sleeping with someone only once. It gives him terrible heartache. How can you be intimate with a person and not feel for them? At least slightly? Lovino was so good with him. But also his voice. Antonio notices sounds quicker than he notices other things. Lovino's voice had a surprising depth to it. The way he spoke, it could send shivers through Antonio. His hands had been so warm, and his eyes such a molten shade of gold. It almost reminded Antonio of the Golden Temple in India, swarming with mystery and grandeur and grace.

Why did he say yes? He feels so heavy and sad now.

As the song ends, Antonio almost doesn't notice someone standing at the side of the stage. He almost jumps when he hears a sharply whispered, "Listen!"

Oh. It's only Arthur. Antonio approaches him and leans in. "Yes?"

"That girl there, Michelle," Arthur discreetly points to a young woman with ebony skin in a pale blue dress and long hair in two ponytails. "It's her birthday. Her boyfriend asked if you could sing something for her? It's a surprise. You know how it is." Antonio also knows that Arthur helps out around the restaurant like this sometimes. He nods slightly.

"Sure, I can sing something."

"Not something pathetic like 'Happy Birthday'."

Antonio narrows his eyes and makes a face. "Give me some credit, Arturo."

"Shut it, Anthony."

Antonio rolls his eyes but goes back on stage. He smiles cheekily into the mic and says, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, here's a little song to celebrate Michelle's birthday!"

He watches the girl's eyes light up in surprise and her boyfriend smirks happily. He's suddenly not so sure about his song selection, but it doesn't matter, really. "Michelle's boyfriend," Antonio calls out to him, "What's your name?"

"David!" he calls back.

"Excellent. David would like to sing this for her himself – but he's not on stage right now, and I have the guitar."

Everyone laughs. Antonio grins.

"_Michelle, ma belle, these are words that go together well, ma Michelle_." It's a Beatles song he heard on the radio in London. "_Michelle, ma belle, sont des mots qui vont tr__ès bien ensemble, très bien ensemble_…" She's blushing and giggling, and her boyfriend pulls her into a kiss and it's just adorable. Antonio wants something like that, but he travels too much. Nobody wants to handle that sort of lifestyle. He knows. He's tried. None of his relationships last more than a few months.

There's resounding applause and a lot of "Awww!"s when the song comes to a close and Michelle is lifted into the air by David and twirled around. Antonio bites the inside of his cheek. He's not sure what he's feeling right now, but it sure as hell isn't happiness. He steps off the stage because he senses the crowd needs some time to become attentive again, and Gilbert hands him a glass of water.

"When did you learn a Beatles son—"

"Oh my god."

Gilbert frowns in confusion, but Antonio isn't even looking at him. No, his eyes search for the figure behind Gilbert, sitting at one lonely corner table, nursing a glass of water. He's wearing another fancy jacket and scarf, and that stubborn curl of his seems a little crinkled. How hasn't Antonio noticed him before?

"What?" Gilbert asks, turning around.

"That's Lovino."

Lovino hasn't looked up from where he's staring deeply into the tablecloth. His shoulders have slumped, and his eyes are filled. Not with tears, but with a visible sadness.

"Oh _Gott_, yes, he's very attractive. And rich, by the looks of it."

Antonio walks forward automatically. Is this a good idea? Does it matter? He's always lived with one foot in the danger zone, so this shouldn't be too bad. He's dealt with worse, hasn't he? Lovino looks up as he approaches, and in a flash, his golden eyes are electric and crackling. "Hi there," Antonio says quietly, slipping into the free seat.

"Oh. You."

"Yep. Me!" he laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair.

"What sort of guy sleeps with someone and then three hours later serenades another woman?" Lovino mutters into his glass of water, a dry eye-roll gracing his face.

"Technically, it's been like…five hours. I think."

"Hilarious."

"I wasn't serenading her."

"I know."

"Oh, good."

"You were."

"I'm sorry?"

"You. The singing. The guitar. It was pretty good."

"Oh. Thank you!" Antonio laughs again.

And Gilbert and Francis take that exact moment to show up with two chairs and a bottle of wine. Antonio gives them a weak glare, but Francis just grins at him. Lovino raises an eyebrow. "Can I help you?" he drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Gilbert, Francis," Francis introduces, thrusting a hand out for Lovino to take. "So good to meet you. We're friends of his."

"Francis. Yeah, he mentioned you." Lovino stares warily at the offered palm, and then slowly shakes it. "Lovino."

Antonio watches Francis's gaze actually pause. It's like someone's stopped him in mid-sentence. He's regarding Lovino oddly, like he's just remembered something important. "Oh," says Francis suddenly. "_You're_ the Lovino he was talking about?" and then he shoots Antonio a very strange look, like he's trying to say, _Did you REALLY? _

"Is Lovino that common a name?" the Italian mutters in response.

"What do you do?" Gilbert asks after a moment.

"Wine industry."

Francis looks at Lovino again, and then signals for a waiter. One scrambles up to them, saying, "Yes sir, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"He owns the restaurant, I think I told you?" Antonio explains.

"Oh. Right." A pause. Lovino seems to be deliberating something. "It's a Michelin Star restaurant. So I decided to check it out."

"_Ja_, it's excellent," Gilbert agrees. "Try the lamb."

"We'll see."

"What would you fellows like to drink?" Francis asks, but he's still looking only at Lovino. "Here's an idea," he tells the waiter. "Budweiser for Gilbert, and the rest of us can share a bottle of Vargas – something from their 2003 range, red, please. Surprise me."

"No," Lovino suddenly blurts. "Two Budweisers. I don't drink wine."

"I thought you Italians were like the French - you're Italian, right?" Gilbert says, slumping against the back of the chair. "Guzzling wine like water. But eh, whatever. Beer is better than that girly crap anyway."

"Wine isn't girly," Francis snaps.

"It's not," Lovino agrees. "I just don't like it."

The waiter walks off. Antonio's not sure what to do now. He's feeling awkward, and he wishes Francis and Gilbert would just please go away. But then Lovino asks, "You run this place?"

"Me?" Francis replies. "Yes. Do you like it?"

"What's your food like?"

"It's the best in the city. In the country, perhaps."

Lovino's lips become a thin line. "I see."

"Ah, do we have a food critic on our hands?"

"Something like that."

Francis lets out a confident, airy laugh. "Well, _Monsieur _Lovino," – he stretches out the word 'monsieur' practically unto the next continent – "Please do your worst."

Lovino's expression doesn't really change, but Antonio senses a bit of…well, not tension, but _amusement_ hovering between the two of them. They're both so confident about their own opinions. It's like a friendly challenge.

"Although I must say," Francis goes on, his eyelashes fluttering, "French food is best consumed with wine, no?"

Lovino's brow creases. "No, no wine. That's non-negotiable."

"Ah, fine, fine." Francis is smiling slightly, but there's still a very weird expression on his face. It's nothing like Antonio's ever seen before, and he doesn't quite like it.

Just then, another waiter shows up. He looks slightly pink in the face and rather harried. "Mr. Bonnefoy! Sir!"

"_Oui_?" Francis turns, his lips curving downwards. "What is the matter?"

The waiter leans in and whispers desperately into his ear.

Francis turns pale and jumps to his feet. "What do you _mean _Arthur's in the kitchen!? I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, _do not let that man near the food_."

Gilbert rolls his eyes so emphatically it's a wonder they're not stuck pointed upwards.

Antonio bites his bottom lip to keep himself from laughing.

Lovino is just looking curiously between the three of them.

"We're really sorry, we tried to stop him, but –"

"No, if he wants to help, he can handle the customers. He's good with that. Sort of. Actually no, don't let him near the – why do I even keep him around? I should just ban him from this restaurant. Oh _mon dieu_, I need to check the status of my kitchen." He turns to the three of them. "_Excusez-moi_, this is an emergency."

Lovino doesn't look particularly impressed.

Francis just turns and leaves, almost galloping to the kitchen as though he's about to save his pet cat from a fire.

"What was that?" Lovino asks after a moment.

"That's Francis," Gilbert replies simply. He stands up too. "I have to call my fiancé, she's probably wondering where I am."

"Your friends are interesting," Lovino says after Gilbert's a safe distance away. Lovino's Budweiser has arrived, and Gilbert's on the phone with his beer bottle in the other hand. Antonio watches him laughing as he talks, and he can't help but shake his head. Maddie has him wrapped around her little finger. It's hilarious.

"They're a hoot," Antonio agrees.

There's a silence at the table, and Antonio's not sure about what to do next.

"What is your plan for tomorrow?" Lovino asks.

"Tomorrow? I'm leaving."

His golden eyes flash. "Leaving?"

"Yes. It's time to go. I'm driving up to Normandy." And then a crazy, insane, stupid idea occurs to him. "Do you want to come?"

"What?" Lovino says the word so loudly that people from nearby tables turn to look at them. He puts his beer down with unnecessary force, and repeats in a softer voice, "_What_?"

"Normandy. It's a place."

"I – I fucking know that!" and then his eyes widen, and Lovino's hand clamps down on his mouth. "Sorry. I didn't mean to swear."

Antonio tilts his head to the side. "It's okay. I don't mind."

"It's bad for…business," Lovino finishes, his face turning bright red. He looks away, towards the empty stage. "Normandy, huh?"

"Yeah. It's a totally random idea. But it's been a while since I saw it. I'm bored of Paris."

"I can't come."

"Why not?"

"Well…my brother's booked me tickets for museums and stuff, and…"

Lovino is still not making eye-contact.

"So what?" Antonio asks. He genuinely can't understand. He likes museums, and honestly, there's a lot to see in Paris. But if someone asked him to just pack up and go somewhere completely new, he'd jump at the chance without thinking. It's hard to imagine that someone like Lovino – someone who seems so obviously free-spirited – would refuse for something as silly as _tickets to museums. _

"I just can't," Lovino finishes. He resolutely avoids looking at Antonio. "I barely even know you."

"I mean, you did sleep with me…"

"That's different."

Huh. Is it? No, it doesn't seem different…not in Antonio's mind. Travel and sex are both a matter of comfort, right? You usually only do it with people you're familiar with. But they only knew each other for a few hours before they had sex, so why can't the travel together too?

"What's to know?" Antonio says after a moment. "I'm Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. I'm twenty-eight. I was born in a small town in Spain where not much happened. I can play the guitar. My favourite colour is red. I like tomatoes! Um, what else? Oh, I'm scared of heights, and I love puppies. But then, everyone loves puppies."

Lovino's blush is so deep that it has spread to his ears. He's still looking right at the empty stage, but Antonio knows he's been listening to every word. "That's not what I meant," Lovino finally says, shaking his head.

Antonio sighs. "Well, think about it. It'll be fun! It's always fun to travel with someone new. You get to know them, you make a new friend, and you have great experiences." Antonio takes out a pen from his pocket and writes his number and Gilbert's address down on a tissue. "If you're interested, meet me tomorrow at six am. Trust me, you'll have a great time. Unless you'd rather stay in Paris, of course…" he looks up with a dubious frown, as though the word 'Paris' is synonymous with the word 'gutter'.

Pocketing the tissue, Lovino says, "All right. Whatever. We'll see."

There's a huge smile on Antonio's face.

* * *

Francis arrives with the food himself, which ought to be seen as an honour. "I cooked it," he boasts to Lovino, who merely raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure you will find it to your liking, _mon ami_," he goes on, flicking some hair out of his face and shooting the Italian a smile that makes Antonio's blood boil. It's exactly the sort of look Francis gives people before they're in bed with him. It's stupid to get this jealous, Antonio knows. It's irrational. He barely even knows Lovino. But if Francis sleeps with him too, Antonio would feel like he'd been used.

Lovino studies the food on his plate. Antonio doesn't really know what it is. Some sort of meat and gravy with greens. "It looks okay, and it smells okay," Lovino concludes after peering at it for a few minutes. Francis's eyes narrow as he hovers above the Italian, awaiting his judgment. The word 'okay' is seldom used in context of Francis Bonnefoy.

Slowly, he cuts the meat, staring at it on his fork for another minute. Then, with the same slowness, he puts it in his mouth and chews. Francis says nothing, but Antonio can see a visible tightness to his features. He's usually so confident about his creations, but Lovino seems to be testing his patience.

"It's salty," the brunet finally declares, putting his fork down and sliding his golden eyes towards Francis with the slightest of smirks.

Francis's jaw drops. "No, it's not. I made it myself!"

"It's salty."

"It is not!"

"It is."

"No!"

"Yes, it is. Taste it yourself."

"It's not – excuse me?"

"Go on." Lovino pushes the plate towards Francis now, that smirk still there. Francis is glaring. Literally glaring, hospitality business be damned. Antonio's sure that Francis has never been told his food is anything but _exceptionnel. _"Are you scared I'm right?" Lovino eggs, and that's when Francis snaps.

"I'll prove it to you!" he declares, grabbing another chair and sitting down. He pulls the plate towards him, cuts a piece of meat, dips it in the gravy on the plate and puts it in his mouth. Antonio watches Lovino. His golden eyes are studying Francis so carefully, that pure confident sneer to his lips. Francis's face begins to fall. It starts in his eyes – they lose their shine. Then there's that frown.

"I told you."

Francis swallows. "Oh god. That _was _a little salty." He looks like he's living his worst nightmare. Wide eyes, pale skin, slight tremble to his frame.

"But I liked the rosemary in there. Nice touch. And that dash of saffron was a good idea, although I would probably have used basil instead." Lovino raises an eyebrow again. "Francis? Can you hear me?"

"I…I…" he stutters, and Antonio rolls his eyes. Francis can be _so _melodramatic. "I'll get you a fresh plate."

"What? No, it's okay." Lovino holds onto the plate and drags closer towards him. "It's really not that bad."

"It's not okay." The fire in his blue eyes is back, and Francis stands, pulling the plate firmly out of Lovino's grasp. "No diner of mine must have salty food. It is unthinkable. I deeply apologise. Desert is on the house."

"What –"

And Francis turns on his heels and marches off.

Lovino is silently gaping. Then, his eyes turn to Antonio. "Is he always like that?"

"Pretty much. He's very good at his job. Apart from the…uh…occasionally salty food." Antonio smiles at him slightly. "Hey, think about my offer, okay? I better go back to playing music."

* * *

It's way past midnight when Francis and Antonio drive back to the Frenchman's apartment. The ride has been strangely quiet. In fact, Francis has been acting a little funny ever since meeting Lovino, and Antonio knows it has nothing to do with the food incident. "There's something you'd better know about him, Toni," he says as they unlock the door to his place.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Sit, I'll show you."

While Antonio starts organising the pull-out sofa, he's also randomly throwing things into his bags. He only really has two. A backpack and a large shoulder bag. Francis has gone to his room, and Antonio can hear things being moved and cupboard doors being opened and closed.

Five minutes later, Francis returns with his scrapbook. He has a bit of a habit of collecting newspaper and magazine clippings relevant to his line of work. New developments in the food industry, reviews and critics, a rival restaurant, perhaps inflation in the produce market…

Now, he opens it to a section titled '_Vin_': the French word for wine. He flips past a few pages, and says, "So, there's this very, very popular brand of wine I'm sure you've heard of. They're originally Italian, but they've rather successfully breached the Spanish and French market with regional varieties." Francis's sky-blue eyes look at Antonio with not a trace of humour. "When I saw your Lovino, I couldn't help but think that he looks rather familiar…and then it struck me. See." And he points to a slightly yellow newspaper clipping.

Antonio is not so interested in the headline. Something about the Vargas brand having produced a new line of red Bordeaux. No, he's keener on the picture. There's a colour photograph of a man with greying brown hair standing in between two younger gents. One of them has his eyes slightly closed – perhaps due to the camera flashing – and the other is…Lovino.

"Lovino _Vargas_," Francis says dramatically, his eyes never leaving Antonio's. "Your little boytoy is none other than the heir apparent to one of Europe's largest wine producers."

"Oh." Antonio's pretty sure his ears are ringing.

"_Oui_. He's rich. He's very, very rich. Not to mention famous. No wonder he paid in cash and didn't reveal his last name. He probably doesn't want the attention."

"This explains a _lot_," Antonio says after a moment. The expensive spending habits - Lovino _really _knew how to tip. The strong opinions on food...he's probably used to eating the best. Lovino _did_ seem rather rich, actually. Not to mention cultured. And he'd also said he worked in the 'wine industry'. "But wait, why does he keep avoiding wine, then?"

"He probably gets too much of it." Francis pauses for a moment, and then says, "But that's not the point. The point is, you can't throw his name around lightly. You have to be a bit careful."

"Huh?" Antonio finally tears his eyes away from the newspaper clipping and blinks at Francis. "Why?"

"Because your little rendezvous with him? That there is a gossip story. He's known for being rather promiscuous. You really don't know, do you? He's bisexual, apparently. He's dated celebrities and heirs. Sleeps with money, if you know what I mean. Last I knew, he was seeing some Alfonsina something…daughter of one of those dot-com millionaires."

"Oh my." Antonio's is gaping, and he can hear his heartbeat in his head. "Francis, I messed up."

The Frenchman narrows his eyes. "What did you do?"

"I asked him if he'd like to come to Normandy with me."

"Oh _mon dieu._"

* * *

In the morning, Antonio is nervous. He could barely sleep at all last night. He feels like such an idiot. Lovino is probably laughing about it over wine and bonbons or something with three French belles slathered in strawberries and cream. The very image makes him shudder. The idea of Lovino being with someone else disturbs him, and that in itself is an unsettling thought. Antonio knows he gets too emotionally invested in people too quickly. And he also knows this is going to blow up in his face.

He's actually hoping Lovino won't show up.

He won't, though. There's just no way.

Gilbert is a morning person, weird as that seems. He's perky and wide awake when Antonio comes knocking. Shoving the car keys in his face, he takes a step back and asks, "Did you sleep at all last night? You look like shit."

Antonio rubs his eyes. "I hate waking up early, you know that."

"True, you sleep like a rock. Anyway, look, Maddie's asleep so I don't want to wake her up. Have a safe trip, 'kay?" He pulls Antonio into a quick hug. Gilbert is better than Francis, that way. Antonio knows the German misses him like crazy, but he's better at hiding it. Francis bawls. Literally. There's still a wet patch on his shoulder from where Francis was sobbing over him only twenty minutes ago.

Antonio zips up his jacket as he takes the keys. "Thanks, Gilbert. I really owe you one."

"Don't worry about it." The German is grinning.

When the door closes behind him, Antonio is actually a little relieved to find that Lovino is not around. It is five minutes past six now. Antonio throws his luggage in the backseat. Francis has given him an umbrella and several hundred Euros, apart from the payment for Antonio performing at the restaurant last night. Antonio had tried to argue, but Francis had forced him. "You need this more than I do," he'd said. And well, it's true. Antonio sits in the driver's seat and starts the car.

That's when he sees a shadow approach.

Lovino is dressed in thick layers, his hands in the pockets of a black trench coat. He's carrying a couple huge suitcases with him, and the two of them just stare at each other. The light is pretty terrible, but it's enough to see Lovino's unsure face. Antonio opens the car door.

"Do…do you need help with your bags?"

"It's fine."

When they sit in the car, there's a real awkwardness that makes the air seem a little overwhelming.

"Apparently," Antonio says, "You're the grandson of Romulous Vargas."

"Did the French bastard tell you that?" and Lovino winces. "Sorry for cussing – it's a habit I usually try to suppress."

"Don't worry about the cussing," Antonio says with a smile. "But yeah, Francis told me."

"I thought so. He seemed pretty perceptive last night."

"Lovino Vargas," Antonio says quietly, more to himself than to the man sitting next to him.

"For these two weeks," and his golden eyes glitter in the lamplight, "I'm just Lovino."

* * *

**A/N: I think I'll update on a weekly basis. So every weekend (either Saturday or Sunday, haha). Let's see how that works out xD I usually like to update at least twice a week, but I honestly don't have the time right now. Argh…**

**Anyway, thanks for reading! Please review! :D **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A little disclaimer is in order. **_**I've never been to France. These descriptions might be incorrect. Humour me.**_

**Also, now that I've established both POVs, I shall not be doing the present-day. From here on out, ****everything is dated **_**three years ago **_**unless otherwise specified. **

**Oh, and remember what I said last chapter about updating every weekend? Well, I've scrapped that plan. I'm going to try and finish this fic as soon as possible, even if it means churning out chapters at breakneck speed. I'm on **_**holiday **_**right now and I've already got a million things on my plate. Editor-and-chief of a department magazine in college, research paper to write for an inter-college seminar, studying, and that's apart from the fact that I want to be able to work on my novel in the new year. That means finishing off my pending fanfiction commitments so I can go on hiatus. (I'll obviously still be reachable through a PM xD). But yeah. Prepare for quick updates. **

**Disclaimer number two: I know nothing about wine. I'm making it up as I go along. **_**This is what happens when you watch too many cooking shows. XD**_

**And finally, for the purposes of this fic, **_**every single character is French by nationality, unless otherwise stated. **_**Seriously, guys. Why would you randomly stumble upon a Russian, a Latvian, a Dane and everyone in the Hetalia cast – **_**in France**_**? I'm not changing their names to something more French, but at least let's pretend that they are.**

**Luka - Fem!Norway**

**I'll shut up now. **

_**Merci.**_

* * *

It's only when they leave the city that Antonio rolls down the windows. The air outside is bitterly cold, but Antonio's shoulders visibly slump in relief and his eyes soften. Lovino makes a face but says nothing, pulling his jacket closer to himself. He'll never get used to this kind of climate. "How long a drive is this going to be?"

"Normandy? A couple of hours." His eyes flit to Lovino. His smile is friendly but gentle, almost hesitant. It's like he's asking, _am I allowed to be kind to you? _Lovino almost questions him about it. It's such a curious expression. But then he balks, firmly staring out of the window instead.

What on earth is he doing? After dinner last night, he'd gone to his room and called Feli. His brother had been waiting to hear if Lovino had enjoyed himself. Lovino hadn't gone into details. He spoke the Eiffel Tower without mentioning Antonio. He talked about Francis's restaurant without bringing up the proposal to go to Normandy.

And why on earth did he even accept? He wasn't going to! But he woke up early, lay in his bed thinking about _everything he hasn't done _and _all the places he hasn't seen _and the room smelled of Antonio's cologne even though housekeeping had changed the sheets. So perhaps it was just Lovino's mind craving for more release, more life, more _anything_, just _more_, because twenty-eight years of his time on this planet had resulted in nothing but several million Euros in the bank and an existence that was so trapped, so suffocating, so overwhelmingly boring and that was simply not how a life should be lived.

So he came along. He didn't tell Feli. He doesn't plan to.

Another rule broken.

Who cares about museums and churches and monuments?

Lovino is going to indulge himself. For once in his life.

"Where are we staying?" Goodness, he doesn't even know these details. What if Antonio turns out to be some halberd-waving murder and this trip to Normandy is an elaborate plot to kill him and take his money? It's not narcissistic to think that. His grandfather has warned him multiple times about conmen and thieves and how he needs to be careful because he's a Vargas and Vargas equals wealth.

"A friend of Francis's – Jeanne something – owns a cute hotel by the beach. It's supposed to be off-season, but there's a large crowd of wedding guests there? Anyway, yeah, so she's all booked-up. She only has one room." Antonio glances at Lovino now, and his expression is slightly wary. "We'll be sharing. I hope that's okay?"

"It's not like we'll be sleeping anyway." Lovino says the words very, very quietly. He doesn't expect Antonio to hear. But the Spaniard's hands tighten over the steering wheel and his face flushes wildly. He doesn't take his eyes off the road. He says nothing for several minutes.

"Normandy is beautiful. I've been there once before."

"Then why are you going back?"

Antonio's eyes sparkle with amusement. "I've only been there _once _before." A pause, and then, "Tell me a bit more about yourself?"

"There isn't much to say," Lovino replies honestly and a little sadly, staring out of the window. The sun is coming up, but that doesn't make the weather any warmer, or the sky any bluer. It's a pretty bleak day. The road is littered with red, yellow, orange leaves.

"That's not true. That's not true about _anybody_. Go on. Unless you don't want to tell me, that is."

"All right. I'm rich," Lovino begins, although he knows how pathetic he sounds. Antonio chuckles softly, and the Italian's face goes bright red. "I like tomatoes. And…I'm on holiday," he adds lamely, lowering his eyes.

Antonio grins. "I love tomatoes too! They're so good. I think I told you that last night? Ah, I don't remember. And France is such a nice place for a holiday! How long are you here for?"

"Two weeks. Didn't I tell you that?"

"Oh yeah, I think you vaguely mentioned it. But that's lovely! You can see so much and yet so little in that time! What's your schedule like?"

"It doesn't matter. This stupid trip to Normandy is ruining it. Besides, I don't really care. Paris. Lyon. Bordeaux."

Antonio frowns, more to himself than to Lovino. "Paris, Lyon and Bordeaux? That's a bit weird. They aren't even close by. They're actually all over the place! How were you planning on getting around?"

Lovino shrugs. "Trains? Cars? I don't know. My brother made all the arrangements. I haven't even looked at the schedule."

"Oh," Antonio says after a moment. "You like cities, then?"

"What's not to like?"

"Uh…pollution? Large crowds?" But Antonio is laughing. "Kidding. I like cities too! I love meeting people there! And it's so interesting to watch a city wake up. Of course, some cities never sleep…but that's all very interesting to study. I remember waiting at Grand Central, watching people go by. It's fascinating."

Lovino shakes his head and rolls his eyes, although he's not sure why he's showing such disdain. Maybe it's jealousy. "I've been to a lot of grape farms," he says after a moment. "Too many to count."

"Oh? What are they like?"

"Boring, really. I don't really care about wi – uh, I don't really care about the grapes as much," he amends quickly. He knows he has to be careful (not that he is) about his anti-wine comments. It would be too huge a scandal.

"There was a lot of farmland when I was younger," Antonio says, a tad nostalgic. "I see what you mean about it being boring. Although I liked the outdoors. I spent almost all day outdoors."

"I'm not surprised," Lovino replies dryly. His eyes are fixed on Antonio's jaw. It's so well-defined. Like it's been carved out of the finest teak. His mind hasn't caught up with what he's doing yet, or he'd question his sanity. First, he sleeps with a stranger on the street. Now he's going off to a foreign country with said stranger. It makes no sense. It's dangerous. Lovino half expects Antonio to slit his throat. He's almost afraid to close his eyes and take a nap.

But the thought of Antonio doing something like that is not just implausible, but frankly absurd. He seems too nice. Way too nice. There's something so fundamentally delicate about him…Lovino can't place it. He can't figure out why he wants to be gentler with Antonio. It's not usually his style. Antonio does not seem weak. At least, not physically. No, it's something else. A type of risky, inborn sensitivity to the world. It's so…difficult to describe. Lovino almost doesn't believe himself. Surely it's his mind going crazy because of the scent of Antonio's cologne.

The Spaniard's eyes are slightly watery, and he takes one hand off the steering wheel to wipe them. At first, Lovino thinks he's _crying_ – why on earth is he _crying_? – but then Antonio yawns, covering his mouth sloppily with one hand and then rubbing his eyes again.

"Please don't tell me you're sleepy," Lovino mutters, giving the other man a weak glare. "I am not going to let you drive me around if you're going to fall asleep on the wheel!"

"Hey! I'm not going to fall asleep on the wheel! I'll have you know I've driven in worse conditions without sleeping for _days._ You try driving on the Leh-Manali highway on a good day!" and then, for effect, Antonio adds, "Snow, landslides, terrible terrain. I bet you can't do it!"

Lovino raises an eyebrow. "I know, I know. You're a well-travelled, worldly man who's seen it all and done it all, but since I value my life, I'm not going to let you drive me if you're tired. Didn't you sleep last night?"

"Uh…not really. I tried, but I got a bit…well, there was a lot on my mind." Antonio glances towards him for a moment before looking back onto the empty road.

"Then you should probably catch some shut-eye," Lovino replies.

"You'll drive?"

"Why do you sound so worried? I have a license and I'm a good driver. Besides, I can't sleep."

"You don't know the way."

"Antonio, we're on a highway with road-signs. And we've got a GPS."

"But the signs are in French!"

"I know rudimentary French, thank you very much. It's a job requirement!"

Antonio lets out a long, exasperated sigh. But then he slows the car down and stops on the side, giving Lovino a tiny grin. "Well…okay. I guess some sleep will do me good, huh?"

Lovino replies with something dismissive and non-committal, and they open their doors and switch seats. Lovino watches Antonio settle in, buckle himself and yawn once more. "Be careful if it rains," Antonio mumbles before closing his eyes. "And thank you for taking over."

"…Sure," Lovino says, starting the car.

He rolls up the windows because it's bitterly cold, and Antonio's asleep anyway, so it doesn't matter what he thinks. Lovino likes driving. It gives him a sense of control he feels he lacks otherwise. It's the same reason he likes to cook. He likes how precise it can be, and yet, cooking is also like free-verse. It simply depends on how original you want it.

Dinner last night had been great, especially after Francis replaced his meal with something less salty. And dessert had been even better. It was all French, and Lovino can't quite remember their names, but it was very enjoyable all the same. Francis is a brilliant chef, that much was certain. At par with Lovino, definitely.

What if he owns a restaurant one day? The idea seems so ridiculous. But Lovino stares out into the leaf-littered highway with the looming grey sky and the red and yellow and orange on the trees, and the possibility doesn't seem so…fantastical. He knows how he wants it, too. It would be elegant and classy, catering to the social elite. Sort of like the restaurants he himself frequents. It would have chandeliers and velvet curtains, a large floor for ballroom dancing, a live band and the best Italian menu in the whole country.

Lovino hears a whimper. For a second, he almost thinks he's imagined it, but then he glances to Antonio. Is he having a nightmare?

No.

Antonio's eyes are wide open, his hands clutching the seat, his skin sheet-white. He's biting his bottom lip and he looks like he's about to cry.

"What in the world…?"

"Slow down, Lovino, oh my god," he says in a rush. It sounds more like: "SlowdownLovinoohmygod!"

"Huh?" Lovino glances to the speedometer. "I'm only at 170…"

"ONLY?" Antonio shrieks, throwing a panicked glance at Lovino. He's staring at the Spaniard in utter disbelief. "Keep your eyes on the road! Slow down! Oh my god, we're going to crash!"

Lovino feels his face becoming hot. "Hey! We're not going to –"

"Eyes on the road!"

"Oh boy…" Lovino turns back to the road, rolling his eyes. "Calm down, okay? I normally drive this fast. I know what I'm doing. Just go back to sleep."

"I can't sleep when I'm about to die!"

"You're not going to die! Shut up!" And that's exactly when Lovino's phone rings. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and picks it up. Beside him, Antonio moans softly, burying his head in his hands. "Hello?"

"_Fratello_! Hi!" says Feli on the other end. "Did I wake you? What's your plan for today? Isn't Paris soooo pretty?"

"Hey, no, I've been awake. Nothing special," Lovino replies in a monotone. "I'm going to see the Louvre. That should be fun. How are things at your end?"

"Vee~ They're all right! I met someone!"

"You what?"

"Yes! So I'm in Berlin right now, closing the deal with that German wine producer. There's this man on their legal team. Ludwig. He's soooo dreamy, _fratello_. Although he appears very serious, he's actually such a softie. We went on a date last night, and – wait, what's that noise?"

Lovino rolls his eyes as Antonio closes his and starts rapidly praying in Spanish. A slight speed-bump in the road makes him whine loudly, pathetically begging for Lovino to _slow down por favor. _"That's…" Lovino mutters, glancing at Antonio for a moment. "Nothing. Housekeeping's singing."

"Lovi, that didn't sound like a song, that sounded like a –"

Antonio makes a sharp, high-pitched noise as Lovino swerves to avoid an oncoming car.

"That," says Feliciano simply. "It sounded like a squeal." A pause, and then, "Uh, are you with someone? I feel so embarrassed! I'm going to call you later –"

Lovino feels his face go plum red. "No! I'm not – I'm driving! There's this idiot next to me who's – Antonio, _shut up_, it's under control!"

"You're going to kill us! Put that phone away, it's not safe!"

"Uh…" Feli says, although Lovino's not really paying attention anymore. "…Lovi?"

"I am not going to kill us! You should see how fast I am on my motorcycle!"

"You mean you can go even _faster_?" Antonio cries, horrified.

"I'm great with speed, and I can go fast for a long time without anything bad happening!"

"Okay," Feli says finally, a little unsure. "You're clearly…with someone…having a personal conversation…um…call me later…"

And the phone goes dead.

"Feli? Hello? No, you're misunderstanding! This is just –"

Antonio wrenches the phone out of Lovino's hand and shoves it in the glove compartment. "Let's switch. I'm driving."

"No, you're not. My brother thinks I'm having sex. This is such stupidity. If you could just calm down –"

"Calm down? You expect me to calm down? You're literally the worst driver I've ever had the pleasure of knowing!"

Despite everything, Lovino can't help but smirk. "At least knowing me is a pleasure, so if you die, you'll die happy."

For a second, Antonio looks like he's about to cry. But then he blinks, and bursts out laughing. Lovino's smirk widens until it's a grin, and then he's laughing too, and he just can't stop. It's coming from somewhere deep inside him, a place where all this madness and stupidity makes sense in the best of ways. For this split second, at least, Lovino is having fun.

* * *

So they reach a compromise. Lovino drives, but at a sane speed. Antonio's still too scared to sleep though, especially when the rain starts pelting down on them. No, he just shoots Lovino nervous glances and pathetic reminders to, "Go slow," "Watch that turn", "Brake!"

It's a wonder Lovino hasn't hit him yet.

But when the rain clears and the clouds part, a beam of sunlight shoots right into Lovino's face, making him blink and crane his neck to avoid being blinded. But he hears an odd _click_. By the time he's turned to Antonio, he hears three more _click, click, click_s. The Spaniard lowers his camera. "The light hit your face so perfectly," he gushes with a massive grin. "You looked like you were made of gold! Oh, they're such nice pictures!" He looks through each one, green eyes sparkling.

"Hey," Lovino says suddenly, "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Take random pictures of me. How do I know you're not going to put them up online?"

Antonio's brow furrows. It's somewhere between confusion and disappointment. "Oh, right." His eyes trail outside the window, and he turns his camera off. "I looked you up. It's so weird to see someone you know in person on the internet. Photos, videos, blog posts…" But he turns back to Lovino and offers a smile. "I won't put these up anywhere, I promise. But don't make me delete them. They're so wonderful!"

"I've heard that one before," Lovino mutters under his breath, eyes on the road and tone emotionless. "How do you think that damn scandal with that Hollywood actress went public? She took a picture of us in some café – mind you, she had a husband – and I told her to delete it, you know. It was a pretty telling selfie. I had my arms around her. But she promises me no-one's going to find it and all that jazz. Next thing I know, the picture's been leaked, and the tabloids are exploding."

"Oh."

"You read about that scandal when you looked me up?" Lovino asks, feeling bitter. Why does he get himself into these situations? He can't even get himself to feel a thing about the people he sleeps with. It's more the public aftermath he hates.

"Um, yes. I'm sorry. Should I not have?"

"I don't care one way or another." It's true. Lovino can't bring himself to care about most things, especially these scandals. They're just annoying. The last three years of his life – really, since he joined the family business – have been peppered with outbreaks like these. "But my point is, she took that stupid picture because – well, I don't know why – and promised me she wouldn't do anything with it. But mysteriously, the picture gets leaked. Two days later, the box office explodes because everyone wants to watch one of her movies. The whole thing was a promotional stunt. She didn't even do it for sentiment or anything." His hands clench on the steering wheel. "I hate being used like that. So don't take my pictures again."

"Oh my god, I would never do something so terrible," Antonio whispers, his eyes wide and horrified. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you must have felt."

"I felt nothing," Lovino replies simply. "Of course, the tabloids eventually moved the hell on. Even _Ebola _becomes old news if you wait long enough," he adds with a dark smirk. He feels like the personification of irony.

A small silence follows this, and Antonio's back to staring out of the window. "The leaves are so pretty," he says after several minutes, a tiny grin tugging at his face.

"They're all right."

"I used to love jumping in huge piles of leaves when I was younger! Did you ever do that?"

"No way. It would have ruined my clothes."

Antonio turns and blinks. "Dead leaves can do that?"

"If you're wearing designer stuff and your mom's constantly reminding you of it? Yeah."

"You're so complicated," Antonio suddenly laughs, a hand on his mouth as giggles escape him. Lovino's face feels hot, and once again, he knows he's blushing.

"What?" he barks.

"Nothing, it's just…" Antonio trails off, still laughing, "You're like the typical rich playboy in all those movies: misunderstood."

Lovino takes his eyes off the road to gape at Antonio. Literal wide-eyed, jaw-hanging, pause-in-thought _gape. _"I'm not that much of a cliché, am I?"

"You sort of are," Antonio finishes with a chuckle and a soft shake of his head.

"You're no different," he retorts, staring out into the road again. "Typical free-spirited hippie traveller with a guitar and shabby clothes, living life on your own terms. You've got everything all figured out, haven't you?"

"Oh, absolutely. I'm _Enlightened_. I should start my own religion! What would that be? Antonioism. Carriedoism. Oh yes, I like that one. Carriedoism!"

"Sure," Lovino replies, trying to keep a façade of cool and dismissive.

"And you could be my first follower! I suggest you convert to Carriedoism right now and be my disciple."

"Let me think about it, Padre."

"Ah, ah, ah! That's the first Commandant of Carriedoism! You don't think—"

"I'm not surprised."

"—Very funny. You don't think, you just _do._"

"That sounds like a bastardisation of the Nike tagline."

"Perfect. We can sue Nike for hurting our religious sentiments."

Lovino starts laughing.

* * *

"Antonio."

"Yes?"

"I think we might be lost."

"Oh. Crap."

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

After about four hours of driving around in circles, Lovino pulls up at the side of the road, undoes his seatbelt and presses his forehead against the steering wheel. It's afternoon. Raining. Windy. And somewhere along the way, they've taken the wrong turn and exited the highway. On either side of them is what looks like a ghost town. Houses with their windows shut, not a single vehicle or person in sight.

"Let's try the GPS again," Antonio says, not sounding half as worried or tired as Lovino's feeling.

"It's in German," the Italian mutters, closing his eyes. "Why does your friend have his GPS settings to German? Can we change it back?"

"Gilbert's German. I think with this whole French environment, these little things remind him of home."

"For pity's sake."

"We can try changing it back," Antonio suggests with a warm smile. He reaches out to press random buttons, but Lovino swats his hands away. He tries too, and after five minutes of muttering in Italian and groaning in annoyance, he lets his head fall forward on the steering wheel again.

"We're in a town," Antonio says. "Let's just ask someone."

"Have you seen this town? It's the setting of a horror movie." Lovino points straight ahead, where there's a derelict looking chapel and a cemetery. "See? It even has a creepy church."

"You watch _way _too much TV." Antonio unbuckles his seatbelt, turns and reaches out for the umbrella on the back seat. "I'm going to check this place out."

"Wait, no," Lovino quickly says. "Let's drive around and look for a place to eat. It's lunchtime, anyway. You'll get soaked and you'll fall sick and I'll have to deal with it." He turns the car on and starts to drive.

The vehicle limps ten feet down the street, splutters and burns out.

"Okay," Antonio says, more to himself than to Lovino. "_Now _we have a problem."

* * *

Like criminals on death row seeking Sanctuary in medieval France, Antonio and Lovino run to the creepy chapel, the only umbrella they have between them blowing fiercely and upturning at least twice. When Antonio makes the observation about feeling like a convict, Lovino rolls his eyes. "As far as I know, Sanctuary was also applicable in the Notre Dame. Which I could be visiting right now before I took a taxi to a decent restaurant, if it weren't for this mad road trip to nowhere." Lovino hugs himself to stave off a shiver. "Man, it's so cold."

The chapel is gloomy and completely empty, but Antonio and Lovino walk up to the figure of Christ in silence. Lovino kneels, joining his hands and closing his eyes. "Lord, I'm sorry for my promiscuity, my – my swearing, and anything else I've ever done wrong. Please get me out of this mess. Thank you."

"You make it sound like you're requesting additional services for your cell phone," Antonio says. "_Hello? Hi, yes, I'm sorry for my sins. Please help me out of this. Yes, I'll hold._"

Lovino blinks. What is up with this Antonio character? Doesn't anything faze him? Lovino's in Creepy Church, Ghost Town, in The Middle of Nowhere, France, with a car that won't work and a too-cheery Spanish traveller for company. He's drenched, he's hungry, and he's cold.

Lovino isn't ashamed to admit he's a little bit scared.

So he shocks even himself when he retorts with, "_For confessions, press 1. For prayers, press 2. To speak with an angel directly, press 3._"

Surely God has a sense of humour. Otherwise, he wouldn't have given Man one. Antonio bursts out laughing, the sound echoing into the high ceilings as he doubles over and pus his hands on his knees. Lovino laughs too, despite the fact that his teeth are chattering and he's seething inside. How can he not, when Antonio's laugh is so infectious.

Lovino ends up stopping prematurely, because Antonio's eyes have become wide and he catches a chuckle in his throat like he's trying to swallow evidence. Lovino whips around to see what Antonio has seen.

The priest is standing right there. He's _huge. _He towers over the both of them easily, blonde hair, humourless blue eyes, straight shoulders and firm glasses. He's just staring wordlessly at the two of them. Despite his expressionless face, he gives off vibes of fury.

"Uh," Antonio says nervously, softly. "Hello…_Allo. Bonjour._"

"_Bonjour_," the priest says monotonously. Despite the cold, Lovino feels a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. The man looks between the two of them. Soaked and shivering, moments ago laughing inappropriately in front of the figure of Christ. "You…" he says slowly, as though searching for the right words. "Are…French? No?"

Lovino takes a deep breath. He's got far more expertise handling matters that require tact. He might not be as good as Feli when it comes to handling people, but he's still pretty good at it. "No, sir, we are not. We duly apologise for our behaviour, and we do hope you will forgive us. Unfortunately, we know very little French," – he ignores Antonio's soft protest of 'Hey, I know it!' and continues, "– Do you think we might possibly communicate in a common language like English?"

The priest blinks at Lovino, looks silently at Antonio, and blinks at Lovino again, without a single change in expression. It's almost like he's not understood a word of what Lovino's just said. Not only is that highly plausible, but it could also be very inconvenient.

But then the man points to himself. "Berwald."

"Father Berwald, a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Lovino rattles off smoothly. "My name is…" _not Lovino, because if he's heard of me, I'm going to end up spending all day in Confession_, he thinks before saying, "…Romano. My name is Romano," he says firmly, ignoring Antonio's wide-eyed stare. "This is Antonio. We got lost on our way to Normandy and our car seems to have broken down. Would you possibly know someone who can help?"

Father Berwald's stoic face doesn't change the slightest, but he finally says, "Again. Slow."

Lovino sighs, pointing to himself and saying, "Romano." He gestures to the other man. "Antonio."

Father Berwald nods.

"Our car," – more wild gesturing, "—Not working."

Antonio rolls his eyes. "Sorry, _Romano_," he almost laughs when he says it. Smiling at Father Berwald, he launches off in rapid French, and Lovino watches with a sinking feeling of humiliation as Father Berwald nods several times, responding with a question occasionally and inserting little 'Hmms' and '_Oui_'s.

Finally, Antonio turns to Lovino with happy eyes. "He says to follow him!"

As they walk quietly behind the priest, Lovino asks, "Are we going to hell for this?" For making inappropriate jokes about God in a chapel and for lying to a priest about his name.

"Oh yeah, there's a special circle in hell for the two of us," Antonio answers with a tiny grin. His smile widens into a smirk though, and he asks, "Who is _Romano_?"

Lovino almost snorts in laughter. "I have no clue."

* * *

Father Berwald leads them out of the chapel – where the downpour has _finally _subsided – and there's a heady scent of rain in the air. Antonio inhales deeply, with great pleasure, despite the fact that there are goose bumps on his skin from the cold. "I love this smell. Don't you?"

"Petrichor," Berwald says suddenly, startling them. He turns, blinking at Antonio. "Rain smell. Petrichor." For a man who knows very little English, he clearly seems to have command over utterly obscure words.

They walk through the muck, passing houses, a salon and what looks like a tavern. It's like they've been thrown back in time. This does not look like the textbook version of France. It seems far more original, far more _rural. _Lovino can actually see fields in the distance.

The priest finally stops in front of a house painted white and pulls the knocker. _An actual knocker. _A shorter blonde opens the door, his brown eyes widening in mild curiosity as he regards the three men. He then turns to Berwald with an inviting smile, and the two of them have a conversation in French that is perhaps too soft, too quick, or too complicated for Antonio to decipher. Lovino can tell. Antonio's frowning in concentration, his eyes moving between the two speakers like he's trying to follow, but just can't.

Finally, the smaller blonde says, "_Je suis Tino! Parlez-vous Français?_"

"_Oui_…" Antonio begins slowly. "I mean, we speak a little French. I do, anyway. Romano over here does not."

Which isn't entirely true. Lovino knows the simple stuff. He's understood what this Tino is saying. It's the accent – that powerful French accent – that confuses him. And the quick speech. Tino nods in understanding. "I know little English. Father Berwald is a…a…_ami_," he finishes, glancing at smiling at the larger blonde. "Your car is not working? Where is it?"

"Down that road," Lovino points vaguely in the direction they came.

"Ah. We have a mechanic," Tino says thoughtfully. "But he is likely sleeping now. He should be woken by half an hour. Meanwhile, please do join us for lunch, if you are wanting to!"

Lunch. Food. Lovino's stomach actually growls at the thought. He hasn't even eaten breakfast, has he?

"Really?!" Antonio cries, clapping his hands together in joy. "_Gracias, muchas gracias! _I mean – _merci beaucoup!_"

Tino opens the door fully and steps aside with a short laugh. His house has these tiled walls, flowers in little vases, fridge magnets, knit-work on the walls, and a pleasant homely clutter that Lovino almost never sees in his grandfather's sprawling estate. "I get towels and clothes," Tino says happily, "You both are wet!"

"Thank you so much," Lovino responds, hugging himself tighter. It's wonderfully warm inside his house. Berwald walks forward and sets a Bible down on the table. He reaches out for the shelf over the kitchen counter and picks up a jar of instant coffee. "_Café?_" he asks, turning to the two of them.

Antonio gushes happily with elaborate hand movements as Berwald wordlessly makes the drink. Tino comes out from one of the rooms with two sets of fresh clothes and a couple of towels. "You bathe?" he asks.

"Sometimes," Antonio replies with a short giggle. At Tino's confused expression, he goes on, "Just joking. Yes, a bath sounds nice!" He grins at Lovino. "Romano, why don't you go first?"

Lovino's not very fond of the way Antonio says 'Romano' as though it's the world's greatest inside joke. But he nods and takes one set of clothes from Tino's hands, murmuring a soft thank-you as he does.

The shower is everything Lovino's ever dreamed of. Piping hot water, an assortment of soaps and shampoos, pumice, conditioners and all manner of other scrubs. Or maybe it feels so good because he's cold and tired, and all he wants is a little bit of luxury. The clothes are Tino's, and are just the expected amount of tight around the armpits and the waist. But it's manageable. Nothing very fancy, just a grey t-shirt and jeans, but they feel absolutely perfect after the drenched jacket and scarf and silk shirt and trousers he's been wearing all day.

When he steps out, Tino's face brightens. He takes Lovino's wet clothes from his hands and puts them in the washing machine. Antonio, who's been sipping coffee, takes a large swig to empty his cup and goes for a shower himself, chattering and thanking them on his way to the bathroom.

Berwald is sitting quietly at the table with a half-empty coffee cup, staring straight at Lovino with an expression that could convey anything from confusion to rage. Firm lips, unblinking eyes, straight shoulders and a set jaw.

Tino places a cup of coffee in front of Lovino. "Antonio says you are _Italien_. How is _Italie_? Very hot?"

"Thanks," Lovino whispers softly, putting the cup to his lips. "Italy's warmer than this, definitely."

"You want food?" Tino asks, starting an entire different thread of conversation. "Lunch leftovers – _désolé_."

"No, that's perfectly all right. You're being such a big help already."

"No problem, Romano!" Tino says, laughing out loud. From the fridge, he takes out a Tupperware box, opens it and carefully lays the contents on a serving plate. Some sort of meat, although Lovino's not sure how it's been made. Tino looks out of the window as the rain begins again, meeting Berwald's eyes in a soft sigh.

The large, stoic, terrifying man's face becomes slightly pink and he looks away.

Suddenly, there's a yelp, a squeal, and a loud, "Soooooo cuuuuuuuuuteeeeeee!"

Antonio.

Tino, Berwald and Lovino almost jump at the noise, but Antonio bounds out of somewhere inside the house, a snow-white puppy in his arms. The clothes he's wearing hang off him. Berwald's, by the looks of it. But Antonio doesn't seem to care. He's cooing and cuddling the pup in his arms, who looks startled and slightly frightened at the sudden affection.

"Hanatamago," Tino says with a grin.

The puppy yips and sticks her pink tongue out. Her fuzzy white ears sharpen when she hears Lovino snicker. It's love at first sight.

* * *

Hanatamago follows Lovino everywhere. She sits at his feet when he's eating; she scampers after him when he gets up. When he goes the toilet and locks himself in, she sits outside the door and whines until he comes out. Antonio takes out his phone and clicks another picture. Lovino shoots him a death-glare, but there's nothing so bad about being photographed cuddling a puppy, right? If it gets leaked, it would only improve his otherwise scandalous reputation.

Tino pours wine for all four of them.

"None for me, thanks," Lovino says.

Tino's expression tumbles. "You don't like wine?"

Antonio gives Lovino this pointed _Don't Be Rude _expression. Yeah, well, they're nice, simple people, far removed from the drama and aristocracy of Paris. It is a bit rude to refuse, isn't it? So Lovino bites back the urge to sigh, and says, "Actually, that wine looks good. I'd love to try it."

When Tino smiles and pours him a glass, Lovino realises with a jolt that it _isn't _a Vargas. No, it's some regional brand he's not even heard of. That in itself makes the drink seem ten times better. He lifts the glass to his nose, takes a small sniff, swirls it gently in his hands and puts it to his lips. One tiny sip.

The flavour is rather sneaky. He has to smack his tongue to the roof of his mouth to get it to open up. At first, it's rather bitter, but then Lovino starts to notice an underlying sweetness. It's an interesting combination of grapes, somewhat wooded and bold, full-bodied.

But it's not just that. Those are all technicalities.

There's something about this wine that seems _earthy_, like it's an extension of the countryside. The essence of the countryside, actually, fitted comfortably inside this glass. It makes him feel like he's home, although he's never this satisfied with wine otherwise. The taste seems faraway and yet familiar, more conceptual than real. It's like a prospective tomorrow that fills you up with hope for the future.

"This is so good," he whispers quietly, knowing that his ears have turned pink. "This is so, so good."

Lunch goes down easily.

* * *

"Italian! Pastaaa!"

_Oh god, he's like Feli, but worse,_ Lovino thinks as he looks at Mathias. The man's loud and exuberant, so naturally Antonio takes an instant liking to him. The blonde's laughing loudly as he makes the association between Italy and pasta as he swings a toolbox wildly around. Lovino half expects the thing to slip out of his hand and knock someone in the head.

The rain's finally stopped, some semblance of sunlight gracing the sky. The three of them walk up to where the car is, with Mathias chattering mindlessly about things Lovino doesn't care to pay attention to. He'd shown up at Tino's house ten minutes ago, talking about Berwald needing a mechanic.

Antonio and Lovino are wearing their own clothes again, which have been dried and freshly ironed. Lovino's silk shirt is irredeemably ruined, though. Threads are coming out of it and the colour's run. But at least it's warm and dry and it fits him. He can afford to throw this, once they finally get to Normandy. If they ever get there.

* * *

"Is something wrong with the engine?" Antonio asks with wide, worried eyes. He looks vaguely like a child wondering if he can watch TV. Mathias doesn't reply for a moment, peering into the car and stroking his chin in apparent serious contemplation. It's way too cold and dreary for this nonsense. Where's the sun? Why do all the autumn leaves look so dark?

"Who was driving?" Mathias asks finally, giving the two of them a very serious Life-Or-Death-Situation kind of look.

"I was," says Lovino, allowing a little bit of his annoyance to seep into his tone.

"Ah," Mathias says simply. "Did you not notice it was running out of fuel?"

"What?! No, it wasn't!"

"You need to take it to a gas station. The nearest one is five kilometres away. So you will have to drive there!" He laughs as though it's hilarious.

Antonio doesn't seem half as concerned as Lovino. In fact, he looks entirely in his element. His eyes are almost sparking with humour as he watches Mathias, glancing to Lovino's deep scowl and alternating that with long looks at the car. He seems to be enjoying the situation _the most_, in fact. Even more than Mathias, who still hasn't stopped laughing.

Finally, Antonio says, "Can someone tow us there?"

Mathias sobers immediately. His jaw slackens slightly and Lovino can almost see the metaphorical bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. "Luka has a tow truck."

"Perfect!"

"_Non, ce n'est pas parfait!_ She hates me!"

"Why? Did you laugh her to tears or something?" Lovino drawls, rolling his eyes.

"That makes no sense," Antonio mutters. A giggle and another utterly unnecessary, "_Romano_."

"I…uh…owe her some money."

"How much?" asks Antonio.

"About…about seven hundred Euros."

Lovino almost chokes on thin air. "_Seven hundred Euros_?! Why did you even _need _seven hundred Euros?!"

"It's a long story…Not one that matters…" Mathias does that nervous chuckle, the 'hehe hehe hehe', scratching the back of his head awkwardly as he crinkles his eyes in a sheepish smile.

"Let's go reason with her," Antonio declares, utterly unfazed. "In my experience, people usually listen if you make your case convincingly. And anyway, _we _don't owe her seven hundred Euros. Why should she have a problem helping us?"

* * *

"No."

"Aww, but –"

"Where's my money, Mathias?"

"I'm getting it, I'm getting it –"

"It's been three years."

Lovino shoots his coldest, most fearsome glare towards the blonde man. _Three years, really? _he mouths darkly. Turning to Luka – a _girl_ – Lovino falls back on his massive Italian charm. "Ah, you see, miss," he begins smoothly, making sure to emphasize his accent. "Antonio and I must get to Normandy today. It is of deep importance."

Luka raises an eyebrow, but her expression doesn't change. She seems has stoic as Berwald, and just about as scary. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she taps her foot impatiently.

"Yes, you see…" he begins, making his voice waver and sound just slightly more vulnerable. "A dear friend of ours has passed away, and we cannot miss his funeral, which takes place this evening."

Antonio blinks and looks at him. Lovino ignores the man, focusing only on charming this girl. This heartless, evil girl. Luka doesn't look the slightest bit affected by this story, so Lovino adds, "It was such a tragedy." Eyes lowered, head shake in pity. "He died so young."

"But he died doing what he loved." Antonio sniffed, wiping a crocodile tear from his eye.

"Oh?" Luka replies, raising her eyebrow even further, if possible.

"_Si_."

"And how did he die?" she drawls, her eyes boring into Lovino's so fiercely that they're almost shooting right through his skull.

"Er...welll…"

"Knitting!" Antonio suddenly cries, his eyes wide in apparent horror. "Oh, it was so bad! Well, the knitting was good. Wonderful sweaters, every Christmas. And embroidery on the linens – so nice. But…but…um, you see, he was knitting a scarf and he fell on his face and the needle stabbed his eye. He was bleeding madly. The hospital staff tried to save his eye. And they succeeded! Too bad the blood had entered his brain and it had swollen. He was spasming and choking and his eyes were wide open – well, one was. The other was bleeding like crazy, soaking into his clothes and the floor…and then he gasped and rasped and whispered revenge upon the needle company that made such dangerous objects, the floor tile company, for making such slippery floors, the chair company for making chairs that are off-balance and fall, and for the orange tabby cat for coming in between his feet. He whispered his revenge…and then he died."

Mathias goes milk-white, biting his nails in terror.

Luka's lips become very thin.

And Lovino just stares blankly at Antonio. "What the _fuck _is wrong with you?"

"What?" Antonio weakly defends. "That's how he died."

Slowly, Lovino turns back to Luka. "Yeah…tragic."

Luka stares from Lovino, to Mathias, and finally to Antonio. "Sorry. But until I get my money back, I'm not towing your car anywhere."

* * *

Lovino can fix this. They march up to the car, throw open the doors and take out one of Lovino's designer suitcases. Inwardly, he's telling himself that this is the stupidest use of seven hundred Euros in cash _ever_, but he's got four in his wallet, and he can easily take out three more from his bag, so Mathias can finally pay Luka back with Lovino's money, she can drive them to the gas station, and everybody's happy. Even Lovino, because finally, who cares about seven hundred Euros when he can finally go to this stupid hotel in Normandy and _get this stupid vacation over with?_

* * *

When he hands over the money to Luka, she almost can't believe it. There's actually an expression on her face! That of surprise, shock, disbelief. She raises each note to the light to check for its authenticity before looking at Lovino. Mathias keeps murmuring 'Thank you, Romano!' every three minutes, followed by some complicated mumbo-jumbo in French.

Lovino's wallet is empty now. He can't believe what he's just done. Seven hundred Euros to get some random girl in Ghost Town, The Middle of Nowhere, France, to drive them to The Gas Station Five Kilometers Away, so that they can get to Normandy. Staying in Paris would have been so much easier…

"Right," Luka stammers after staring slack-jawed for a few minutes. "Uh – I, um – where's your car?"

* * *

Antonio's driving. Lovino's too tired to care now. It's already sunset. They've got fresh directions to Normandy, and Antonio seems more confident about driving in foreign places anyway. Lovino puts his earphones in and blasts Bach so loudly that he can feel his skull explode.

Speaking of exploding skulls.

"What on earth was up with that horrifying story you told Luka about our imaginary dead friend?"

Antonio starts laughing as Lovino takes the earphones out. "Well, I panicked and said 'knitting'. So obviously, I had to improvise."

"Of course."

* * *

"Hello!" says a cute blonde woman as they enter the hotel. It's on a hillock overlooking a beach. A small place with shell paintings on the walls and shell-studded stationery and shell shaped sweets in a little bowl at the reception desk. "How may I help you?"

"Jeanne?" Antonio asks slowly. "Hi, I'm Antonio. Francis told you I'd be coming?"

Her eyes widen. "Oh goodness, I was getting worried about you!" She jumps to her feet to shake his hand. "Welcome, welcome. I have your room keys right here. I was expecting you for breakfast! It's past dinnertime now!"

Antonio glances at Lovino with a grin. "We got a little sidetracked."

Jeanne looks from Antonio to Lovino. "Oh. I…I thought you were coming alone. I only have one room to let. All the others are occupied by wedding guests."

"That's fine," Lovino says coolly, taking the offered keys from her hands. "We won't be needing another room, anyway."

Lovino feels rather pleased when Antonio goes scarlet.

* * *

**A/N: Yaaay, that was fun xD Please don't mind the jokes about God I put in there. I was just having some fun, I don't mean to hurt anyone's sentiments :)**

**Oh, and if you're in the mood for some angsty Spamano, please check out my one-shot, **_**Sunshine**_**. **

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**

**One last thing: **

**MERRY CHRISTMAS, LOVELIES :D **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I just remembered that in addition to all the other stuff I mentioned earlier, I have a couple of more commitments :'D Why is everything piling up on me? *High, nervous laughter.* *Desperate tears*.**

* * *

When Antonio wakes, the bed is empty on Lovino's side. He's naked underneath the sheets, and the memory of last night makes him groan in exasperation. He'd promised himself he wouldn't let Lovino seduce him again. That's worked out well, hasn't it? There's a part of Antonio that still wants Lovino to touch him, knowing fully that he's going to regret it later. Lovino breaks hearts. Whatever this…fling…is, it'll be over in two weeks, and Lovino will fly back to Italy. So Antonio better pull himself together and resist him.

He drags himself out of bed and has a shower. Their room is not very large. There's a bed, a cupboard, a table and an en suite bathroom. The hotel isn't particularly special in any way, except for the extensive shell-themed décor. Where's Lovino? His luggage his all here, so he couldn't have just left. Maybe he's at breakfast?

As Antonio's buttoning up a shirt, he sneaks a glance through the curtains at the gaping sea on the horizon. Crystal white waters that mould into the sky, a surprisingly bright sun that glows like something ethereal and magical. The beach, the orange trees, and the wind.

It's not Paris.

It's Somewhere Else.

He takes a deep breath. The air is always sweeter when he's in Somewhere Else.

The plan for today? Taking in the sights. He always sorts out only a couple of days to check out the attractions of a place, and spends the rest of the time wandering the streets and stumbling upon hidden treasures. That's how he found the Da Vinci Museum in Florence. A tiny little door in a wall? People must just walk past that. Or the Toy Museum in Singapore. But this is more fun in chaotic cities where everything seems to happen at the same time. Like Istanbul or New York or Mumbai. There's more frenzy, and therefore more hidden pockets of silence.

Antonio walks into the dining room, which is surprisingly almost full. Of course. Those wedding guests. Old people and young women and handsome men and children running around screaming. The only table that doesn't seem so haphazard is Lovino's.

He's sitting at a table by a window, checking the messages on his iPhone as he sips a cup of coffee. He doesn't look up when Antonio walks up and sits opposite him, smiling slightly as he does. "Good morning. You're up early."

"Yeah," Lovino says finally, putting his phone away. "I surprised myself."

"Last night was wonderful."

"Absolutely. Shall I get you some coffee?"

"I'd love some, thank you."

Lovino signals the waiter for it, and as the man nods and smiles and walks off, Lovino turns back to Antonio and says, "What are we doing, now that we're here?"

"I was thinking we could check out the attractions."

Lovino raises his eyebrow. "That's such a…_normal _thing to do."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I guess I just pictured you jumping off a cliff into a sea of sharks to find some lost treasure or something. You seem like the type."

Antonio chuckles. "We could do that too, if you want. Did you have anything else in mind?"

Lovino looks down to his coffee, stirs it a bit, before tearing a packet of sugar and pouring it into the cup in delicate circular patterns. "Oh, I do have something else in mind, but we've already done that twice. Then again, I doubt you'd get bored. Not to brag, but I'm very good at it."

Antonio's heart thuds. Why is sex always the only thing on Lovino's mind? Why does Antonio keep saying yes? It makes him feel cheap, because he knows this means nothing to Lovino. Besides, Antonio also knows he gets too emotionally involved too quickly. He shouldn't be this attracted to Lovino, he shouldn't care so much about Lovino enjoying his company. It's so frustrating.

Once more, he betrays himself.

"I thought that was the plan for the _evening_. What do we do during the day?"

The Italian smirks slightly, shaking his head. "I thought it would bother you, but it doesn't. That's good, I suppose."

"What would bother me?"

"All the meaningless sex. You seem a bit…I don't know, you just don't seem like the sort of person who'd enjoy it. I shouldn't have to assure you of this – but if you don't want to do it, just tell me."

Antonio feels suddenly split in three. He's burning with embarrassment, he's touched at Lovino being so thoughtful, and he's also terrified of Lovino thinking any less of him. It's all so stupid, it's all so completely stupid. Ugh, why does this have to be so complicated?

Antonio puts on his façade. A sneaky grin, a slightly laughing voice. "I don't know, have you ever even been rejected? Can your ego take it?"

"My ego can take a lot of things, including rejection. But you know what? I've never been rejected. By anyone."

_No, I'm not surprised. You're the whole package. _He's extremely attractive, he's rich, he's intelligent, and he's charming. Plus, he's got this dark sense of irony about him, and this odd, pensive, soft side that Antonio's sure people don't really see. Something about Lovino seems so suffocated. It's like he's drowning out his real self in loud music. Except this loud music is a fake personality.

A bit like Antonio's?

Antonio lies all the time. And when he can't lie, he runs. He's always run. It's the only way he knows how to deal with things. And now it's a high, an addiction. Travelling, of course, is a great thing. It's not the travelling that's the problem. It's the angst he feels when he _can't. _It's not even wanderlust. It's actual anxiety. Claustrophobia. It's like he physically can't breathe.

"Antonio? Hello? Where have you gone?" Lovino asks, his hand reaching out and brushing Antonio's knuckles. The touch startles him out of his musings, and Lovino's swirling golden eyes act like the North Star. He's pulled into them. He wants to lean across the table and kiss Lovino. Not one of those hot, furious kisses before sex, but something softer and sweeter and gentler. Something a lover might do.

But that would be crossing a line.

"I…" Antonio mumbles, looking away and staring at the salt and pepper shakers. "Sorry. I was just daydreaming."

"Oh? What about?"

"My coffee," Antonio lies, his eyes flashing as he looks up at Lovino. Is there a smile on his face? Yes, a nice bright one. Perfect. "What's taking them so long? I'm starving. Should we order breakfast, or is there a buffet?"

Lovino's eyes haven't changed any. They're moving very carefully across Antonio's face, his lips in a thin line. Finally, he says, "Liar. What were you really thinking about?"

Something inside Antonio shatters. "I – I'm not lying."

"And I'm King Solomon."

Antonio swallows. "It's a bit…inappropriate."

Lovino smirks. "Excellent. Do tell."

"No…I…I'm not sure you'll appreciate it."

"Oh? If you're thinking about topping next time, that's fine. I'd rather top, but the role reversal is fine with me."

"No! I…um…I want to kiss you."

Lovino's eyes widen. So it _is _inappropriate. Antonio isn't surprised. Soft, gentle kissing was far too personal. Emotion, both of them knew, was a dangerous thing. They were playing with a snake. And then Lovino pushes his chair back, drags it closer to Antonio's, and sits so close to him that Antonio can smell his expensive cologne. "You want to kiss me?" Lovino repeats like he can't even believe it.

"I – I – um –"

Lovino's hand falls on Antonio's, rubbing gentle circles on his palm with his thumb. It's a move that sends warmth in the pit of Antonio's stomach, and a terrible coldness in his chest. Lovino then leans forward, making Antonio forget how to breathe, and kisses him.

All at once, Antonio's universe explodes. His head is roaring, his toes lose feeling, and Lovino's lips are soft and careful. He's not exerting any control, he's not forcing himself in any way. It's so tender. This is so _not _like the man he's been sleeping with. Lovino's usually so demanding and rough. This is almost affectionate, almost _sad_. It's like a kiss goodbye, the sort of thing that burns memories into the mind, molten chocolate and warm milk, honey and furnaces in the snow, delicate, pure, _loving._

And then Lovino pulls away. His eyes are shining. "How was that?"

Antonio tries to talk, but the words tumble and fall out of his grasp.

"Want me to do it again?" Lovino teases, still running circles on Antonio's palm.

"You – I – what."

A chuckle. Soft, delicate, tender, pure, affectionate, gentle, all the adjectives Antonio has never dreamed he can use with Lovino. It's a laugh that's saying, _so cute_, without actually using words.

"You're really something," Lovino says with what looks like the lovechild of a smirk and a smile on his face.

"…So are you," Antonio finally says after several stupid moments of stammering.

A menu card, and Lovino's not looking at Antonio anymore. "What do you want to eat? I was thinking of something simple. Omelettes or something."

Truthfully, the kiss had vanquished any hunger Antonio had. But he still said, "Yeah…yeah…that sounds fine…"

Lovino signals for the waiter.

* * *

They spend all day checking out beaches and museums and churches. They get lost several times, and the German GPS doesn't help. Despite telling Lovino that he's good at the language, Antonio actually knows very little German. He finds it difficult to pronounce the words. Gilbert's called him out on it more than once, because Antonio's fairly decent at French and Gilbert feels comically left out. Luckily, it seems like Lovino doesn't remember Antonio telling him about his nonexistent German speaking skills, because he doesn't demand that Antonio translate what the woman in the GPS is trying to say.

What Antonio finds deeply unnerving is that Lovino has been holding his hand. When they're walking, or when they're in a restaurant, or simply standing around, Lovino will reach out and hold Antonio's hand. It's so calm, so utterly relaxed, that Antonio doesn't even know how to ask him about it. To Lovino, it seems just as natural as sex, although each time the Italian touches him, Antonio's heartbeat soars and he feels about twenty times stupider than he actually is.

There are moments when Antonio just wants to drop everything they're doing, drag Lovino to some quiet corner, and fuck him. It's not _fair. _It's not _fair _that Lovino's having such an effect on him, and yet the Italian seems completely in his element. It's like he knows the torture he's inflicting on Antonio, he knows and he loves it.

Antonio is starting to develop a problem.

And it's a problem that goes far beyond sexual attraction.

Oh no, that's an easy thing to deal with.

Lovino is talking about something complicated, something about how a well-made pastry should taste like, and how this strawberry-flavoured butter cream nonsense on the plate in front of him is nothing but diabetes without the elegance and how can this crap possibly be French food, it's clearly just some American garbage they've added to the menu, on and on and on in that sharp-tongued, narrow-eyed snootiness that comes from loving the taste of food and knowing how to make it well, because hadn't Lovino mentioned just a few minutes ago that he's a trained chef and –

Why is any of this so fascinating to Antonio?

He can't see the problem with the dessert before them, and half of what Lovino's saying is technical chef stuff, but every word dripping out of Lovino's acerbic mouth is as captivating as the Northern Lights or the first snowfall of the season, and no no no no no no no _Antonio is developing feelings _and this can only end in disaster.

* * *

That night, naturally, they end up having sex again.

It's like a part of their routine.

* * *

Afterwards, with the moonlight sneaking through a gap in the curtains, Antonio's got his arms around Lovino. They're both so hot and sweaty and covered in cum but holding him makes everything seem perfect. It's as though every terrible thing human civilisation has undergone all comes down to this moment – holding someone you care about.

"Antonio," Lovino says quietly, and his voice is drifting far away, his gaze out of the window, his breathing slow and calm and sad. "Tell me about a place you've been to. Any place."

Antonio's quiet for several minutes, but then he strokes Lovino's curl just to hear the other man moan softly. "Norway. It's very…orderly. Empty, green. The sky is this amazing shade of blue. It's the richest sky I've ever seen. And…and Norway is obsessed with trolls."

"Trolls?"

"Yeah, they've got troll figurines and troll-shaped lamps and other weird merchandise. Of course, Norway's also very expensive. _Very _expensive. I actually went without food for a day because it was out of my budget. My fault – I'd spent my money on buying an extra pair of gloves."

"Wow."

"Yeah. But it was unforgettable. If I had more money, I'd definitely go there again."

"This is going to sound rude, but exactly how poor are you?"

Antonio laughs. "It's all right, I don't mind. But I'm pretty broke, Lovino. I guess if I had a normal job and I saved my money, I'd be comfortable. There ought to be lots of places in Madrid where a musician can make a living. Lots of tourists, you know? But yeah…I'm poor." Antonio laughs, because he really does find it funny. He's never cared much about money. He's never had enough of it to really see its benefits. He gets enough to travel, and that's fine. What else does he even need?

"But isn't money important?"

"To an extent, I guess." A pause, and then, "I don't have to ask how rich you are. It's on the internet."

"Yeah," Lovino says bitterly.

"You don't like it, do you? The money?"

"That's not true. Money's…I mean, it's very useful."

"But it doesn't make you happy."

"I'd say money is the enabler. You can't do what you want if you can't afford it. So yes, I like being wealthy."

"Huh," Antonio says finally. "I think you're lying."

"Why's that?"

"Passionate people seldom care about things that don't give them great pleasure. If you say money makes you happy, then you're obviously lying. Because the only time I've ever seen you happy is when you eat. When you eat food that, in your opinion, is good. Like that time in Francis's restaurant. You're a chef, aren't you? That makes you happy. You're passionate about food, not wine. And certainly not money."

"You make everything sound so simple," Lovino says, and his voice is so full of heaviness.

"That's because everything _is _simple. We just unnecessarily complicate things. If you hate your job – and I think you do – just leave. Am I being too forward?"

"Yes, you are," Lovino says simply, wriggling out of Antonio's grasp. He turns to face the man, a weak glare barely visible in the moonlight.

But Antonio only smiles. "Then does sleeping around, leaving a trail of broken hearts, make you happy? I think that would make nobody happy…"

"What are you –"

"Oh come on. You're such a cliché, Lovino. You just do this to vent, don't you? That's why this sex and the kissing and the holding hands, that's why it means nothing to you. It's just a way for you to express yourself, because you can't do it any other way. Doesn't it get lonely?"

"Fuck you," Lovino mutters, closing his eyes. "And this time, I'm not sorry for cussing."

"Don't be sorry for cussing, anyway. Unless you're in a church. If you want to swear, do it. Within reason, of course." Antonio laughs, although he's feeling rather melancholy. This is all just empty to Lovino. But Antonio's already in too deep, and by the end of these two weeks, he's going to have his heart shattered into thousands of different pieces. He's going to be crying into Francis's shoulder for weeks, he just knows it…And yet, he can't stop. He can't stop wanting to get closer and closer to Lovino.

"Try cussing in a business meeting and see how that goes," Lovino mutters without opening his eyes.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Antonio sighs, turning to lie on his back.

"Fuck you."

Antonio laughs quietly. "Again?" Facing Lovino, he pulls the curl. "Fine."

* * *

Bright sunshine in contrast to the watery-sky days they've been having. It makes the autumn look practically radiant. It makes _Lovino _look divine. Antonio can't help but feel like Lovino was born for autumn. He suits it so very much. Auburn hair, tan and amber-gold-hazel eyes that Antonio can drink in all day.

They're driving. It's Antonio's idea. He's bored and there's so much countryside left to explore. Lovino just sits quietly, picnic basket on his lap. Freshly made sandwiches and orange juice courtesy of Jeanne. The windows are down, the air smells of rain and flowers and an aching, beautiful nostalgia that Antonio often feels when he's at home away from home.

This is the high.

He's almost afraid of the crash.

"Where are we going?" Lovino asks.

"This picnic spot Jeanne told me about. Although I don't think we're going the right way."

"Tch."

They drive around in mad zigzags. Antonio's keeping his eyes peeled for a wooden sign down a grassy, open path. It's what Jeanne's described to him. They turn into that road, drive up the hill for a bit, and they've reached. But Antonio can't for the life of him find it. They've probably passed it already.

Then, Antonio _sees_.

It's one of his heart-stopping, blood-chilling, oh-my-god-look-at-_that_ moments that make him hit the brakes on the car so hard that Lovino yells loudly in Italian before the whiplash sends the both of them flying into the windscreen, held back only by their seatbelts.

"What are you—" Lovino begins, frowning.

"Look!" Antonio cries, pointing to Lovino's window.

There, right outside.

It's a tiny, shaded little road that seems completely untouched by humanity. Canopied orange trees, long grass and a path so narrow that there's just no way a car can fit through it.

"What are we looking at?"

"That cute little road! It's perfect! Oh wow, I'm so in love with it!"

"Is that where we were supposed to go?" Lovino asks dubiously.

"Nope! Come on!" And Antonio parks the car, grabbing the basket from Lovino's hands and a sheet to sit on. As they get out, Lovino offers to carry the food. And they walk. It's really a beautiful little path hidden completely from sight. It's several degrees cooler here, but also quieter. They can hear birds.

"You know that poem? The Road Not Taken?" Lovino asks after an extended period of silence.

"Yeah."

"This place sort of reminds of that poem."

"I know what you mean." They're speaking in hushed tones, a mark of reverence. Antonio looks up to the canopy, to the fragments of sunlight pouring in from between the trees. He closes his eyes to it, just for this one moment.

He's feeling safe. Comfortable.

Lovino's hand finds his, and they stand there for god knows how long.

When they resume walking again, it's hand-in-hand, neither of them daring to talk about the danger that's brewing between their fingers. Antonio knows he's doomed, but Lovino can still leave. Lovino can still avoid the heartbreak. What in the world is he doing, making such physical contact with Antonio?

They find a small cliff after forty-five minutes of an uphill climb. Antonio spreads the sheet and Lovino starts on the sandwiches. He doesn't comment on them as he is wont to do while eating. He just looks out into the horizon, into the countryside, into the setting sun, his fingers so very close to Antonio's, as though craving to reach out for them.

Antonio just studies Lovino in the sunlight, in the autumn, wishing he could just capture this moment for the rest of his life.

Oh wait.

He can.

Antonio whips out his camera. "Can we? Please?"

And Lovino just sighs. It's the sigh of defeat. "…Sure. Just one."

Antonio scoots over, laughing as he does. He flips the camera so it's pointed to their faces. He presses foreheads with Lovino, who offers the slightest, smallest smile. And he takes the picture.

* * *

They're still sitting there and it's past sunset when Lovino's phone dings. He reaches out and checks it. Antonio watches with a sinking coldness how his face contorts.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Lovino says quickly, putting his phone away.

"Lovino, what's wrong? Tell me."

"Check the fucking—" Lovino pauses, closes his eyes, presses the bridge of his nose and repeats, "Check the news." Without waiting for Antonio to do anything, he takes his phone out, presses a button or two, and shoves it in the other man's face.

The news app is open, and there's an update in the entertainment section.

_**ALFONSINA AND THE MISSING FLAME**_

_**It comes as no surprise that dot-com millionaire Domenico Alteri's daughter, Alfonsina Alteri, was seen without her new beau, Lovino Vargas, at her birthday party last night. Lovino, grandson of the Italian wine mogul Romulus Vargas, has been known for his more than promiscuous behaviour. It's possible that Alfonsina heard of his escapades with TV actor Bartolomeo Ambrosini, who is a likely candidate in the Vargas's hunt for a brand ambassador. Lovino—**_

Antonio has the phone wrenched out of his hand. The Italian gives out a battle cry with rage Antonio has no idea Lovino possesses, before the phone is hurled into the air and plunges over fifty feet off the cliff and to the rocks below.

Lovino's not done yet. He turns, takes a large pebble from the ground, and throws it against a tree. He does these three or four times, screaming Italian obsceneties at the top of his lungs. When he's out of stones, he takes out one of his own Italian leather Armani shoes and chucks it into the air. It arcs gracefully before flying down the cliff and out of sight.

In all of this, Antonio does nothing. He's not even surprised, honestly. Lovino seems to be suppressing way too much emotion, way too much energy. It's not something anybody can simply dismiss. Antonio just watches the man fume and rage for twenty minutes, and when Lovino collapses beside him, exhausted, Antonio merely runs a hand through Lovino's hair.

"I'd like to have a fucking—I—I'd like to have a personal life without the media fucking—oh goddamn it. I'd like to have a fucking personal life without the media fucking peering into everything and judging me for doing what I do. I'm not a fucking saint, I've never pretended to be. That's the one thing I don't pretend to be, you know? Because wine is shit. Wine is the shittiest drink in all of humanity, and I pretend to love it. I pretend to know what I'm doing in this stupid fucking business, I pretend to care about grapes and I pretend to be the best goddamn grandson that ever existed. But the one thing I don't pretend to be is a saint, and they're calling me out on that too! Trust me, Antonio, when you're rich and you're famous, you're the biggest goddamn clown there is."

Antonio just keeps stroking his hair. They say nothing after that, but they don't really have to.

* * *

Antonio wakes up and he knows.

It's been about five days in Normandy.

He knows.

He's going to break today.

Lovino's still asleep, so Antonio has a quick shower. The sky is grey and windy and dark, most unlike yesterday. The beach and the sea seem slow. There is no wind. Antonio throws the window open, but there's no air. There's no oxygen. He can't breathe. The crash. It's here. It's because he's already been here once before and he can't do it again, not again, this was a bad idea and now Antonio is dying.

He needs to run.

He'll write Lovino a note. He'll explain everything. He'll—

No, he can't just abandon Lovino. Especially not after yesterday. But he can't—but—the air is so—oh god, oh god, oh god oh god no no no—

Antonio doesn't even wear his shoes. There's no time. He just tears out of the hotel room as fast as he can, luggage be damned because he's dying he's literally dying there's no oxygen the air is suffocating him there's no wind there's no nothing it's just vacuum vacuum vacuum

He collapses in the sand by the sea, curling up and gasping, craving for the cold morning air to fill him up and calm him down, but he just can't, because he needs to leave but Lovino is holding him firmly in place because shit shit shit he _cares _he _cares so much _how is that even possible after just five days it always takes longer in reality doesn't it oh god oh god oh god

"Antonio, I want you to calm down."

Lovino's voice is in his ear but that doesn't make sense does it because Lovino's asleep in the room and Antonio's outside and he's freaking out freaking out freaking out

But then warm hands are on his shoulder, hoisting him up, glaring him in the eyes, the North Star, the anchor, the map to the way back home. "Look at me. Calm down. Breathe. Breathe with me. In, out. In, out. Slowly. That's better. Good. Keep going." But the air is still not filling enough.

"I need to go," Antonio rasps. "I – out. Of here. Anywhere. Just out. Out of Paris, out of Normandy, out of France. It's too much, too much."

"Too much what?" Lovino asks, his voice as firm as iron.

"Too much of _Here._"

Lovino's eyes brighten suddenly, like he's understood the secrets of the universe. But the look is gone almost instantly. "You get actual anxiety attacks when you don't travel?" he asks quietly after a moment.

Antonio is still shaking, so he doesn't immediately answer. Instead, he settles down in the sand, digging his fingers into it and letting the coarse grains scratch him. Lovino sits beside him, one hand on his. It's then that Antonio notices that Lovino's only wearing a shirt over his boxers, and that he might be feeling a little cold.

"I wouldn't call them anxiety attacks," Antonio says in a small voice.

"That's exactly what it looked like to me."

"It's…hard to explain. It's…a need to escape. Like claustrophobia, sort of. Or like…an addiction. I…if I don't keep moving, I crash. It can take weeks, months to happen, but lately it's been taking only a handful of days." Usually, it's just a kind of discomfort under the skin, but lately it's been like his body is crushing itself. It scares him. He feels like he's fallen too deep, but he just can't climb out. Travelling makes him feel clean, but the fact is that he's _not. _It's his cocaine. He loves to travel. That's never going to change. But there are times where he feels like he's missing out on normal things. Relationships. Family. A stable job. A _neighbourhood. _

But this is a fear. A fear of staying put. Of being in one place for too long. Of being caught in the everyday. Of losing his life to the boredom of it.

"What on earth can possibly trigger an addiction like that?" Lovino wonders out loud, looking at the sea. A pause, and then he adds, "Let me guess: broken home? I don't know, all this fucked-up psychology shit always leads back to that."

"Not necessarily," Antonio says with a small, breathless chuckle. "I didn't actually come from a broken home. My parents are still together, as a matter of fact."

"Oh. That's good, then."

Antonio writes the letter 'A' in the sand. And then he adds 'F' and 'C'. "But I do think it goes back to my childhood."

Lovino looks up, attentive and curious.

"I told you that I grew up in a nowhere little town in Spain?" Antonio begins. "Not much happened there? There was farmland. I spent all my time outdoors. I hated going back home. Home was so…quiet." His eyes flash to Lovino's for a second. "I don't think my parents have ever realised what their marriage is really like. It's dead. I get the feeling they're completely empty of emotion for each other. They never talk to each other, not unless they have to. I remember, even while having a conversation, they would look at me, or at the floor, or at the wall, or anywhere else. I think they fell out of love. Or that they were never in love. It was…well, for lack of a better word…" And Antonio trails off. "Empty. When I run, I run from emptiness.

"Anyway, I used to have this uncle. He lived in Madrid, but every summer, he'd come and take me out somewhere for a few weeks. Usually in Spain, but he'd tell me such amazing stories about the outside world. About anacondas in the Amazon and blizzards in the Himalayas, escargot in France and the Statue of Liberty in America. For a kid who basically had no life outside home, this was a huge deal. That's what started it, actually. The wanderlust."

"Wanderlust is a good thing."

"It is. As soon as I saved some money, I went travelling. I don't know when the wanderlust changed to travel addiction, but I've been doing it for so many years now. I guess it was bound to happen." Antonio lets out a short laugh. "It hurts, sometimes. The travelling. I'd like to stay put somewhere, but at the same time, the thought terrifies the hell out of me."

Suddenly, Lovino laughs. "We're two of a kind, aren't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh come on. You're scared of staying put, and I'm scared of leaving."

They lie in the sand quietly, until Antonio becomes aware of a breeze. He's breathing, it's cold, the sea is only a few meters away, Lovino's warm and right beside him. The world spins on an axis and Antonio's a very, very small part of it. In the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? What does anything matter? Travel, home, love, heartbreak, here, there, up, down?

Lovino's fingers are delicate and soft.

Antonio stares at the sky. "I love you."

Lovino says nothing for several seconds.

"Shh, Antonio. Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"This is going to hurt so much."

Lovino sighs. "It is."

* * *

**A/N: I estimate there are two more chapters to go. Those lines where the full-stops are missing? Those are intentional. Also, I have this weird headcanon with Human AU Spamanos (especially _my _kind of Human AU Spamanos, constantly ridden with Antonio-focused angst), that Antonio has some sort of anxiety-related issue. It occurs to me that Antonio having attacks like these have popped up in most of my Spamanos, right from _And So It Goes, __Lentamente, Crooked Timber _(sort of), and now this. There's probably more, I just don't remember anything right now xD. I just really like the image of Antonio having an attack and Lovino taking care of him. YES, I AM A SADIST. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading. Please review :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Spinyfruit recommended this one song to me. It's called **_**Wanderlust **_**by Metric. Listen to it, guys. It could be a theme song for this fic! **

**And oh, **_**HAPPY NEW YEAR**_**! :D**

* * *

It's like Lovino's been drunk for three years and this is his first moment of sobriety. They're still on the beach, cold sand and cold wind. His feet are stretched out, his chest balancing on his hands. He's freezing. He's wearing nothing but Antonio's shirt and his own pair of boxers. Lovino had been barely awake when he'd heard Antonio dash out of the room in a mad panic and pure instinct had told him something was wrong.

Now, he's watching Antonio walk by the water's edge, barefoot with his floaters in one hand. Antonio's in a world of his own, his silhouette standing out against the grey sky, the grey sea.

Lovino's in love.

It's not like he's done a single thing to prevent it.

This whole thing – sleeping with a man he'd known for a few hours – had started out as a way to rebel against his own life. But had Lovino even been rebelling at all? After all, he's always been promiscuous. Ever since he joined the family business, really. It's been his only way to vent. Antonio's right about that.

And that first day in Paris. Sleeping with him had just been that. More venting.

The trip to Normandy. That. That was perhaps where the real rebellion had begun.

Antonio's so attractive. But more than that, he's fascinating. Lovino would find him fascinating even if Antonio wasn't an emotionally complicated globetrotter. There's just something about him. His ability to find life wherever he goes. Or no, not even that. Perhaps it's his ability to create an atmosphere. Antonio has that way about him. It's like if Antonio didn't exist, a part of the universe would simply whither up and die. Antonio's almost cosmic, that way.

Or maybe Lovino thinks that because Antonio's the only real thing he's known in a while. In Lovino's world of lies, Antonio stands out. Antonio is like a heartbeat. Antonio is like _Lovino's _heartbeat – he's persistent, he's necessary and he lets Lovino know he's _alive. _

Oh man. What is Lovino going to do?

He's become more aware of time, lately. Of how quickly it goes by, of how he's twenty-eight now, but soon he'll be eighty-eight, ninety-eight if he's lucky, and one day he'll be a headstone in the ground. How he can't waste his life away. He's always known that. But Antonio…has reminded him.

What is most pressing, though, is how the days are passing. How quickly this holiday is coming to an end. Is it possible to fall so deeply in love so quickly? Doesn't it always take longer in reality? In the movies it can happen in seconds, minutes, hours. But this isn't a movie. Lovino knows that when they part, the pain will be _real. _

Lovino doesn't want to go home. Like a child in an amusement park. _Just one more ride, please, please, pleaaaseeee? Just a few more days, months, years, forever. Please? _

But what's the point? What's the point of asking for something he can't have. Their worlds are different. Lovino lives in camera flashes and money and business deals. Antonio lives in airports and beaches and mountains.

Lovino blinks and smiles slightly as Antonio walks back to where he is, sighing loudly as he falls to the sand beside Lovino. "Trapped in newspapers, trapped in maps," he says cryptically. "Freedom is conceptual, isn't it? You can be free in a closed room, or caged in an open space. Lovino, I want to go home."

"Where's home?" Lovino asks, looking at the clouds.

"Home's where you're comfortable, happy, free despite the walls and the responsibilities." Antonio writes his initials in the sand like he had before. "Home doesn't exist. Home, like freedom, is conceptual too."

"We're all conceptual," Lovino muses with a shrug. "Everything is a mere idea of a thing. We think holidays relax us and therefore holidays are considered relaxing. We think the girlfriend is prettier than the wife, and therefore she is. I think you're the most amazing person I've ever met – and therefore, you are."

"I want to go," Antonio says quietly, his gaze turning upwards. The grey clouds reflect in his eyes. Lovino can once again see the hunger and desperation that he had seen in Antonio's face, just like that first day when they were atop the Eiffel Tower. But Antonio also seems melancholy and far, far away. His features seem softer, slipping in and out of focus. "I want to go to my conceptual home."

Lovino sighs, drawing circles in the sand with his finger. "So do I, Antonio. So do I."

* * *

But where they are is on the outskirts of a small town in Normandy, France, Europe, Planet Earth.

The conceptual home is a hole in the map.

* * *

They trudge back to the hotel in silence. Lovino has a shower, shampooing his hair with so much vigour. As though the water and the suds and the conditioner can scrub away everything he's thinking about. All he wants is a bit of mental silence. Why is his mind always screaming?

Does Antonio's mind scream?

Probably.

* * *

A brave face. Lovino's got his. It's an expression of cool indifference, reserved, quiet and intelligent. He wears it now, along with his clothing before stepping out of the bathroom. Antonio's changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a button-down maroon shirt. He stares outside the window, his eyes lost and searching.

"Let's just get out of here," Lovino says simply and Antonio's eyes brighten and sharpen. "Let's go get something to eat. Not in the hotel, somewhere different." A pause, and with fear he refuses to show on his face: "Unless…you're planning on leaving."

"What's the point?" Antonio says simply. "My heart would still be in this hotel room with you, and I wouldn't have travelled anywhere."

"You're so fucking sentimental," Lovino laughs.

"Sorry," Antonio replies with the smallest of smiles.

"I don't mind it." Lovino walks up to him, puts his hands around Antonio's waist, dips them down until they reach Antonio's back pockets. Looking into those green eyes, Lovino pecks Antonio's lips lightly. "I don't mind it one bit."

Antonio kisses him again, and it's longer and deeper and sadder. "I'm glad."

* * *

They eat at a sandwich shop before just walking around the countryside, not talking. Their fingers are intertwined the whole time. It's nice, like this. With the wind and the cold and the fluttering, sleepy leaves. Children running circles around each other. Cows and fields and tractors. It's not real. Or maybe it is. Lovino hopes it is, because that means reality is beautiful.

The sun comes out by mid-morning. It's when Antonio sees a pile of raked leaves by the side of a footpath. His eyes light up and for the first time all day, his face splits into a proper smile. "Lovi, didn't you say you'd never jumped in leaves?"

Lovino lets his gaze travel from Antonio's eyes to the yellow-red-orange leaves on the ground. "Oh no, no way."

Antonio's hand has tightened around Lovino's. "Oh yes," he laughs almost evilly. "Oh yes, yes, yes!"

Without warning, Lovino finds himself pulled and dragged. Moments later, he finds himself wading through a pile of knee-deep leaves that crunch and break. Antonio's laughing and jumping and kicking the leaves around like a puppy on a sugar rush and Lovino doesn't realise he's doing exactly the same thing until Antonio raises the camera hanging from his neck and snaps a picture.

"You're so perfect," he says, his voice a bit breathy.

Lovino pulls the camera out of Antonio's hands and lets it drop around Antonio's neck again. "Shut up and jump in the leaves."

This is the childhood he's never had. Lovino is wearing Armani again today, and it feels good to get them messed up and dirty.

* * *

They're still laughing as they walk into this tiny diner for lunch. It's not French – Lovino knows this the second he enters. It's too bleak, white walls and plastic green tables. Something about it is rather grubby. But he doesn't want to whine about it. Antonio's already picked a booth and is examining the menu. "Ooh, I think this is a Russian restaurant," he says cheerfully as he flips a page. "I haven't had Russian food in a while."

"Not to sound rude," Lovino begins, "But is Russian cuisine known for its…taste?"

Antonio giggles. "Be nice, Lovi. Anyway, I've tried some stuff before and I liked it!"

"Yeah, but you're Spanish. What do you know about good food?"

Antonio chuckles, shaking his head. A waiter walks up to them. He's got this tree-bark brown hair and an altogether concerned expression as he flips open a notepad and asks, "Welcome. What would you like to have?" He says all of it in English. Heavily accented English. He doesn't sound French, so he must be Russian. "I'm Toris and I'll be your waiter for today."

"Hola, Toris!" Antonio greets happily. "I'm Antonio and this is Romano."

Lovino bites the inside of his cheek. This joke isn't funny anymore. It wasn't even funny the first time. But Antonio's eyes sparkle with humour and he looks better than he has all day, so maybe it just doesn't matter.

He studies the menu for a long while and Toris stands there without complaint. Honestly, Lovino's not heard of half the things on the menu, a definite indicator that he's losing touch with his chef side (and that is a genuinely scary thought.) He does, however, recognise the borsht. So that's what he orders – hot, because the weather outside is rather nippy.

After much deliberation, Antonio goes for the kulebyaka. He's not even sure what it is, and he doesn't want Toris to tell him. It's his culinary adventure, apparently.

"If you want culinary adventures, you can help me cook sometime," Lovino says, not realising the implications of his words. But once he's started, he can't stop. "I'd love to own a restaurant one day. Maybe you can be my head waiter." The thought of Antonio as a waiter is ludicrous, so he adds, "Or the entertainment. Yeah, you can be the main act. Like in Francis's restaurant, with all those performers. I could see us doing that. I'm the head chef and you're the lead guitarist."

Antonio is blinking at him. Lovino has watched his expression change from joy to confusion to just plain disbelief. It's this face that stares back at Lovino, and it's only then that Lovino realises _exactly _what he's said.

"We've got a week together, tops," Antonio clarifies simply. "You do remember that, right?"

Lovino presses his forehead to the table. He wants to cry. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I…I…I just don't know."

Antonio holds his hand, raises it to his lips and places a soft kiss over his knuckles. "It's okay. I understand."

* * *

The tone of the day – melancholy – starts changing as soon as the bill arrives. Antonio pulls out his wallet a little too confidently, and then his face drops. "Oh…oops. I forgot to refill it."

"Let me handle this," Lovino sighs, reaching for his own wallet in his back pocket.

Except it's not there.

"Shit."

"What's wrong?"

Lovino stands, searching his pockets. He doesn't have a bag on him, and they don't have the car because they walked all the way, so if the wallet isn't _on _him, it means it isn't _there. _Had it been stolen? No, that's not likely. They were in no place crowded.

It's probably sitting in the room. On the table. With all his cash and credit cards.

"I don't have my wallet. Shit. Antonio, how much money do you have?"

Antonio's eyes become comically wide. "Lovi, I forgot to refill my wallet. All my money's in my suitcase. And my card is maxed out, so don't even."

The two of them just gape at each other for a moment. Their expressions are exactly the same. Quiet, deafening shock. "I think," Lovino says at length, "We should just make a break for it."

"Oh my god, we can't do that! An honest man would be robbed of his pay because of us!"

"So what's your grand plan? Confessing and apologising and hoping for the best?"

Antonio chuckles nervously, scratching the back of his head as he gives a sheepish smile. "Uh…_si_?"

* * *

"So, you forgot your wallets, _da_?" the hand on Lovino's shoulder is as heavy as a stone, and is crushing into his bones like he's made out of cotton. Ivan Braginski, the owner, manager and chef of the Russian diner they were sitting at, places his other hand on Antonio's shoulder and throws them both a too-happy smile. "I have heard that before, yes I have."

Lovino throws Antonio a look of pure terror. Antonio isn't even glancing his way, though. The Spaniard's face has become pale as he laughs nervously and says for the fifth time, "Sorry."

"It's fine, it doesn't matter," Ivan brushes off cheerfully.

"What, really?" Lovino can't believe it. This is too good to be true.

"Really! As long as you pitch in some hours in the kitchen. I think it's only fair, no?" He blinks at them with large, innocent eyes.

"Oh, yes!" Antonio replies for them, making Lovino groan inwardly. This is the last kitchen on earth he'd ever want to work at. Russian food is _not _to his taste. He doesn't even know how to cook it.

* * *

Lovino has never seen a dirtier kitchen in his whole life. Kitchens, like churches, are sacred. They are where the food is made, and hence they need to be spotless. Well-stocked and well-taken care of. But the utensils he sees boiling away on the stove are grubby, scorched in places, dented, with disgusting fingerprint marks on them. The floor is littered with old pieces of food, splashes of gravy and hair – oh god, _hair_ – and Lovino couldn't even bring himself to _look _at the sink, with all those dishes. There's only one other cook there, a short blonde who keeps running around stirring random dishes and throwing stuff into pots without looking at the ingredients, opening and slamming shut oven doors. It's too unbearable to witness.

"So," Ivan says happily, "Who wants to do the dishes?"

"Romano can cook," Antonio offers with a weak smile. "He's the best Italian chef ever."

Lovino shoots Antonio a death-glare. Antonio just smiles nervously at him.

"Oh, really?" Ivan grins at Lovino almost like a crocodile eyeing up his prey. "That's wonderful. I don't know if we have the ingredients for Italian, but it would be a treat to serve something new to our regulars. RAVAIS!" he bellows so suddenly that Lovino, Antonio and the short blonde guy running around the kitchen all jump five inches into the air.

"Yes, Mr. Ivan, sir?" the blonde, Ravais, asks, scampering up to Ivan.

"This is Romano. He will be running the kitchen today. He cooks Italian only, and I think it would be a nice change. Romano, tell Ravais what you need and he will get it from the store. Antonio, you will do the dishes and sweep the floor and counters. Chop, chop, everyone!" Ivan looks just too happy as he grins and walks off.

Ravais sighs, putting his weight on the counter as he runs a hand through his hair. "I sometimes think he's bipolar." But then his face lightens briefly as he smiles at the two of them. "So, Romano and Antonio, huh? It's nice to meet you. I'm Ravais. What brings you here?"

"Hi, Ravais," Lovino begins simply. "We forgot our wallets – well, I did. Antonio's just broke. We didn't realise until it was too late."

"Ah," Ravais nods sagely, as though this has happened before. "The last time someone didn't have the means to pay, Mr. Braginsky made them catch Bessie."

Lovino narrows his eyes. "Who's Bessie?"

Ravais's laugh is high and unnatural. "It doesn't matter. Anyway, Romano, what kinds of ingredients would you need?"

* * *

At first, it's difficult. Lovino's out of practice. But once he sets a menu and starts making the food, he falls into a happy sort of rhythm. Chopping tomatoes, boiling pasta, grating cheese, cutting meat, breaking eggs, seamlessly giving orders to Ravais as Antonio scrubs the dishes wordlessly. Antonio looks miserable, sticking his hands into dirty water, but Lovino is actually enjoying himself.

The sounds, the colours, the smells. Despite the grubby plates and utensils, he's having fun. He's cooking. That's all that matters. How flavours explode into flavours as they meet and blend, vinegar and olive oil, breads and cheese and flour, chopped vegetables and shredded meat, how they come together, these individual things, to create something magnificent. And then there's plating, which Lovino prides himself in. There isn't much to work with but he makes it look as artistic as he can. He's so good with recognising colours that work together, so good at making everything come together on the plate.

He's walking with a beat in his step and he knows it, especially when Antonio turns to glance at him, a cheeky smile and an expression of such self-satisfaction. _You look so happy! I told you so! _Antonio's grin says. Lovino half wonders if Antonio has any sense to what he's saying when he tells Lovino to quit his job, become a chef. It makes him feel so light.

Is it possible? Can he go up to his grandfather and say, "I'm done. I don't want to do this anymore." Can he say that? Would Grandpa mind? Probably not. He's never stopped Lovino from being a chef. This whole wine thing was supposed to be temporary. _Lovino _had settled into routine. _Lovino _had made it permanent.

He doesn't actually own any shares in the company. The majority stake belongs to Grandpa and his associates, although he and Feli stand to inherit everything Romulus owns, especially since their parents died. But the point is, if Lovino quits, he's on his own. Maybe Grandpa will loan him some money to start his own restaurant, but Lovino's not sure he wants that to happen. If he wants to be his own person again, he has to do it his way. Crawl from the bottom up. He's always had it easy.

He wants to be like Antonio.

He wants to earn his happiness.

Besides, he'd rather learn more before he does anything. Maybe pick up a new style of cooking. Maybe French. He's grown rather fond of French food, these days. It's not as good as Italian, but it's still pretty wonderful. He'd like to work at a restaurant for a couple of years. Just to settle back into the life he's loved so much. Just until he's ready.

For three hours, they work perfectly. Lovino's made so many plates of food, and each time Toris takes them out to the tables, Lovino stops to watch him. It's only a diner, not a high-profile restaurant, so he can afford to waste those few seconds. He just wants to see his food being served to people on the other side. He just wants to make people happy in the only way he knows he can. Toris keeps returning with things like, "They just _loved _it!" and "Mr. Braginsky is very pleased!" Lovino pretends he doesn't care, but the compliments fill him up to the brim.

He's in some dirty little Russian diner, in a kitchen that's probably breeding the next fatal pandemic, but he's so _happy. _How is that _possible_?

* * *

Things collapse into a comic mess when Antonio finds Bessie.

* * *

Antonio takes a break from doing the dishes to wipe the counters and sweep the floor. He keeps up a conversation with Ravais, who's asking him if Antonio's ever been to Latvia and whether he enjoyed it there. He banters with Lovino, too, calling him 'Romano' again and again, even though the joke really isn't funny, and Ravais is starting to catch on that it isn't his real name.

That's when Antonio pushes the mop behind the dishwasher sitting against the wall and something huge and black shoots out the gap. Antonio yells in surprise and Ravais cries out in terror as the black thing – is that a cat? – darts from one corner of the room to another, somehow climbing onto the counter and dropping a bowl of diced garlic to the floor.

"SHIT!" Lovino shrieks as the creature almost _lunges _in his direction, and that's when he realises that Bessie is not a cat, but a _rat_.

The pot of pasta in Lovino's hand flies out of his grasp and crashes somewhere behind him. Lovino's only aware of Antonio dimly yelping, but before he can turn and yell and see if Antonio's okay, Bessie leaps onto Lovino's apron. While the Italian screams, she drops to the floor and scampers under a cupboard and out of sight.

In the momentary stunned, shocked silence that follows, Ivan and Toris barge into the room, Ivan holding a _shotgun _of all things and Toris grasping an empty tray like a shield. "What is going on in here!?" Ivan shouts, lowering the weapon. Antonio is lying flat on his back in a soaked shirt, covered in pasta, Ravais is on a chair using a spatula as a sword and Lovino is standing in the middle of the carnage with his jaw dropped and the words escaping him.

Quietly, very quietly, Ravais whimpers, "Bessie attacked us."

Ivan rolls his eyes. "Goddammit, Bessie, I told you _not _to!"

From somewhere in the kitchen, they hear a demure, apologetic squeak.

* * *

Antonio's soaked in boiling water. That's the first thing they need to address. He'd been standing right behind Lovino when Bessie had jumped on him. The utensil had flown right out of Lovino's hands and onto the poor Spaniard, who's now sitting shirtless on a stool in the kitchen, his skin red his forehead sweaty.

It's not a _bad _burn, Lovino supposes. It could have been much worse. But at least the first-aid is easy to find. Ivan suggests they cover the burn with flour, which is readily available in a kitchen. Even one as bad as this.

"I'm really sorry," Lovino says quietly as Antonio holds a wet towel to his chest. It's dripping iced water onto his jeans, and poor Antonio must be freezing, but before they can put the flour, the burn as to be covered in cool water.

"It's totally fine, Lovi," Antonio replies. Why does the idiot sound so _amused _by the whole thing? "I mean, you've got to admit that was fun."

"You could have been seriously hurt, you moron." Lovino glances around to make sure they aren't being watched. Ivan and Toris are outside, and Ravais is a few feet away with his back turned to them, cleaning the pasta and garlic from the floor.

This is his chance. Lovino swoops in and pecks Antonio's forehead lightly.

"Ah, I feel better already," Antonio laughs.

Lovino then takes the towel off and starts patting flour over Antonio's chest. It's almost embarrassing how doing this is making him blush. He's seen Antonio naked so many times and in so many different positions. But Antonio's chest is so well-sculpted and Lovino feels genuinely vulnerable as Antonio's _smirking _at him, the jerk.

"Are you turned on?" he teases.

"Shut up or I'll hit you."

"You'll hit me? I'm already injured," Antonio cries dramatically. Lovino smacks the back of his head lightly, leaving traces of flour in his hair. Antonio bursts out laughing.

* * *

Ivan lets them go after that. Antonio's shirt is still damp and smelling vaguely of pasta, but despite Lovino's pleas to go back to the room and lie down and rest, Antonio is full of beans and doesn't listen. In fact, as they're walking down the path they came, he laughs quietly to himself, stops in mid-step, and says, "So you know how we went to that weird Russian place because we were starving?"

"Yeah?"

"Well…" and he grins shyly. "I'm hungry again."

"You've got to be kidding me."

* * *

Lovino shocks himself by coming up with an idea. And it's not a normal idea, it's something Antonio would approve of. Because in the distance, they see an orchard. In the orchard, they see lights. And if they squint, they can see a bride and groom.

"Oh my god, those are the wedding guests from our hotel!" Antonio exclaims.

"Where there's a wedding, there's food," Lovino reasons. "Besides, I think the ceremony's over. They're all eating. Look!"

Antonio gives him a funny look. A slightly frown, narrowed eyes, scrunched up nose. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Well," Lovino reasons, shrugging. "I've never gate-crashed a wedding before."

Antonio's grin almost splits his face. "Toni and Romano on another crazy adventure!"

"You really, really, really need to drop this Romano obsession."

* * *

Gate-crashing a wedding. All one really needs is the right uniform. Lovino is dressed to the nines, as always. Despite the sort of day they'd had, he looks mostly respectable. A nice pair of trousers, another silk shirt and another pair of Armani shoes. He has a nice scarf around his neck, too and a jacket that can come off as a blazer easily. Antonio, on the other hand, would be a problem.

Antonio's wearing his maroon button-down shirt, but it's just not good enough for a wedding – or its reception. He's got jeans and scruffy trainers, plus he's still a little damp and smells of boiled pasta. There's got to be something…there just has to be.

"You need a blazer," Lovino declares after walking around Antonio in circles. They're standing under a lamplight three feet away from the entrance of the wedding, just out of sight. "A good blazer distracts from the jeans and the dirty shoes."

"Where will we find one, Lovi?"

Lovino sighs very loudly, and his eyes trail over to where the orchard is. It's all decked up in fairy lights, there's romantic music and lots of laughter. Lovino can see long tables of food and a line for the buffet. His stomach rumbles.

"You're hungry too!" Antonio laughs.

"Yeah…" Lovino's eyes are scanning the tables. The bride and groom are in each other's on the dance floor – or the large patch of grass in the middle, anyway. But Lovino's more interested in the chairs. Some of them have blazers draped behind them. "Forgive me, Father, but I'm about to commit a theft."

"Lovino, what are you –"

But Lovino's already sauntered off. Calm, relaxed, composed. _I'm Lovino Vargas, playboy, heartbreaker and wine connoisseur. I can do this. _It's easy. He just has to pretend he belongs there. This is exactly like all of those parties and wine tastings. He just needs to play it cool.

He walks through the gates easily. Nobody asks questions. No-one even looks at him. There's a nice black blazer hanging behind a chair. The table is empty, There are glasses of wine and some canapés on plates, a couple of purses and a set of keys. The owners of these things are probably dancing. There's a steadily growing crowd on the dance-floor-patch-of-grass.

Lovino's in Zen mode.

He slips off the blazer from the back of the chair, lets it hang on his arm and walks off. His heart is pounding and he can feel the blood rushing to his face. He just stole a stupid blazer. It's unbelievable. What if someone saw him doing that? What if he gets caught? What if – no. He won't think like that. It'll just make him panic.

He walks out of the orchard gates as though nothing's happened and turns around the corner, to where Antonio's waiting with baited breath.

"You stole someone's jacket!" Antonio whispers loudly, his eyes like glittering green saucers.

"Technically, it's a blazer. And I did it for you! So you wouldn't go hungry! So shut up and wear it!"

Antonio laughs. "Aww, you care about me. It's so cute."

"Of course I care about you!" Lovino blushes violently and looks away, wordlessly pushing the blazer onto Antonio's chest. It's weird to keep saying that aloud. Lovino's not so vocal with his feelings. Not his _real _feelings.

His eyes widen when Antonio gasps softly. Oh crap. Right. That burn on his chest.

"Are you okay?"

Antonio's grimacing slightly, but he just shakes his head and smiles. "It's okay. It's just a bit tender." He throws the blazer over his shoulders and wears it, adjusting the sleeves. Lovino rolls his eyes. The collar of Antonio's shirt is caught underneath the blazer. He's so helpless, it's almost annoying. Or it would be, anyway, but Lovino doesn't mind. Not really.

"Here, let me." He reaches out and adjusts Antonio's collar, and without warning, the Spaniard's face flushes. It happens so suddenly that Lovino almost doesn't believe it. He can tell even in the lamplight that Antonio's cheeks are red. "You know," Lovino says as he's straightening out the blazer on him, "You look a bit like a tomato when you blush. It's a bit…well…sweet, I think."

"What – but – I – oh," Antonio stammers.

"There. You look good, for once. Let's eat." Lovino's hands are on Antonio's arms.

"I'm having just the best time with you," Antonio says simply, looking at Lovino like he's seeing a miracle.

* * *

"Just pretend like you belong here." Lovino holds Antonio's hand to reassure him, but Antonio doesn't seem stressed out at all. In fact, there's that tell-tale spark of electricity in his eyes. He's enjoying the rush. They walk back into the orchard, and once more, it's like they belong.

"What if someone sees the blazer I'm wearing and recognises it and realises you stole it?" Antonio wonders out loud.

"Keep your voice down! God. Is this your first time gate-crashing a wedding?"

"Yeah, actually. It's fun!"

Lovino gapes at him. "This is your first time?"

"Yep." Antonio's eyes glitter as he grins at him. "Isn't it yours, too?"

"Yeah…but I've gate-crashed other things. Well, really just one party. And people recognised me and the media was there. But still. It was fun. I was with this guy, this British vineyard owner. Anyway, so it was his idea, but it was a lot of fun."

Antonio sighs. "I wish you wouldn't talk about your boyfriends and girlfriends with me all the time. It bothers me."

"Oh. Sorry." Lovino bites his bottom lip. "They're not my boyfriends and girlfriends, though. They're just people that I…bed."

"Am I that, too?" Antonio asks, his eyes lowered a little. Lovino hates that look on him. Hates it. Antonio should never look so upset. Antonio's face is made for smiling. An expression of sadness is just…wrong. "You said you loved me, so I…" his voice trails off, and at once there's a fake grin on his lips. "Sorry. I get so stupid sometimes."

Lovino can't help it. He pulls Antonio into a hug. Not a kiss, just a hug. He needs to hold Antonio. It's almost religious devotion. He needs to be as close to Antonio as he can. "You are my boyfriend," he says like a statement. "I love you. Do not _ever _doubt that."

When he pulls away, Antonio's eyes are shining just a little. Tears. He wipes them away hastily, mumbling, "It won't matter. In a few days, we'll be separated."

Lovino swallows. "Shh. Forget that, for now. We'll deal with it when we have to, okay?" He places a soft kiss on Antonio's lips. "Let's just forget about that right now."

"Yeah…okay, yeah." Antonio nods firmly. "Let's eat. I'm starving, and that's why we're here."

* * *

Plates laden with food. It's Italian, actually. Lovino finds this funny. Why come to the food capital of the world and choose to eat Italian, of all things? But that simply means they like Italian food over French food, and who can blame them?

They're in line for the buffet. It's Antonio's second helping of spaghetti and Lovino's fourth slice of pizza when the girl standing in line behind Lovino says, "That's a wonderful scarf! Where did you get it from?" Her accent is American, he notes.

Lovino turns, as does Antonio. She's short and blonde with grey eyes and a large red-lipped smile. "Milan," Lovino says quietly.

"Shut up, seriously? My boyfriend's studying there."

_It's just a scarf_, Lovino wants to tell her. But she seems like the talkative sort.

"He couldn't come down for the wedding, poor baby. I'm Angela, by the way. What about you?"

"Romano," Lovino replies. Antonio smiles and bites the inside of his cheek, looking away as he does.

She frowns slightly. "Oh! Who's side of the family are you from?"

Oh dear god. This is getting bad. "Um…the bride's."

"Really? Me too! Huh, how have we never met?"

Lovino glances at Antonio, who's looking a little bit concerned. "Oh, that's simple," Antonio emphasises his Spanish accent so much that Lovino almost feels weak at the knees. Why is everything he does so freaking attractive. "We grew up in Spain. Romano studied there, you know. He still can't speak a word of Spanish. Isn't that right, _amor_?"

"Aww, that's cute! Are you his plus-one?" Angela gushes. "What's your name?"

"Antonio."

"My, Romano, I had no idea we even had relatives in Spain!"

Lovino swallows and stares at his plate for a moment. "Yeah, I'm Aunt Margret's son. She was telling me how excited she was about this wedding just last week. The bride looks beautiful." That can't go wrong. It's rude to forget random aunts. Everyone does it, and they'll never admit to it.

Angela's face went flat. "A-aunt Margret said that? Oh, right." Her voice becomes higher. "That's…that's…weird."

The man standing behind Angela is larger, bald and looks utterly humourless. He raises an eyebrow at Lovino and Antonio. "My sister Margret died five years ago. She was childless."

Angela turns to the man and then back to Lovino.

Antonio glances at him.

Lovino glances back.

"Well, I'm sorry you completely forgot about my mother," Lovino huffs, turning his back to the other man coldly. "I'm talking about Margret from Seville but you know what – whatever. People don't know their own goddamn relatives these days. Whatever. Come on, Antonio, this is fucking ridiculous." He grabs Antonio's arm and pulls him away from the line. "Good day to you, sir," he snaps at the old man.

"My congratulations to the happy couple," Antonio adds, his tone acerbic.

When they're out of earshot, Lovino snorts. Antonio starts openly laughing. It breaks Lovino's will. Suddenly, he's put their plates down on a nearby table and is laughing into Antonio's shoulder between gasps of, "That 'congratulations' thing was a nice touch!"

"You were so good! _Good day to you, sir_! Perfect!"

"Do you think he recognised us from Jeanne's hotel?"

"Who knows? Who cares? They'll all be gone by tomorrow!"

In the distance, Lovino hears someone say, "Darling, have you seen my blazer? It just vanished. I left it here on the chair, and…"

Lovino pulls the blazer off Antonio and dumps it on the table. "Time to go."

Antonio's heard, too. He nods wordlessly, takes Lovino's hand and the two of them dash out of the orchard and into the night.

* * *

There's no way they'll be having sex tonight. The burn on Antonio's chest is still pretty bad. He's lying shirtless on his back with only a pair of boxers on, sighing softly as Lovino rubs cold cream onto him. "Today was fun, wasn't it?" Lovino asks, chuckling as he does. "Ivan, Bessie, Angela…"

"And your mother, Margret from Seville."

"Oh boy, can't forget about her."

"We have a lot of imaginary friends, don't we?" Antonio says with a giggle. "Remember our mutual friend who died horrifically while knitting because the chair he was sitting on broke?"

"Wait, I'm confused. I thought he died when he tripped over a cat while he was knitting."

"No, he was on a chair, knitting. The cat came between his legs and startled him. The chair broke, and the needle stabbed him in the eye. Come on, Romano, that's obvious."

"Stop with the Romano already!"

"Romano's your alternate personality! While we're on the subject of imaginary friends, Romano deserves a mention!"

"Oh, be quiet, you."

Antonio laughs, but it's softer and calmer and it dies down. He pushes himself upright and puts his hands on Lovino's shoulder.

"You should lie down, I'm not done with that burn of yours."

"I don't want this to end, Lovi." Antonio's eyes are firm and humourless. "I don't ever want to have to leave you."

"I don't want to leave you either, Antonio. But we can't help it, can we?"

Antonio cups his face to make sure Lovino's not going to break eye-contact. "Quit. Quit your job. Get your own restaurant."

"Antonio, I –"

"We still don't deserve each other yet, do we, Lovi? I'll work, too. I won't travel. I'll stay in Spain and I'll get a steady job and I'll save every penny, despite the anxiety I feel when I'm not on the road. We have to prove to ourselves that we can do it. Only then can we be together! Only then is it possible!"

"Antonio –"

"One year. We do this for one year. We become worthy of each other. And then after that year's up, we meet again. In France." Antonio swallows. France has become a touchy topic with him, Lovino knows that. "In Normandy. By the beach outside Jeanne's hotel. Our beach. In autumn. And we'll deserve each other then. Then, we'll be able to stay together."

Lovino is crying. "You make it sound so easy."

"It isn't," Antonio says simply. "It won't be for me, and I'm being stupid if I think it'll be easy for you, too. It's going to be hard as hell, but that's the point. We need this challenge. And if we survive it, we'll be with each other. Because I am not willing to give up on you just yet. I've fallen in love so many times, but never like this. It's crazy, Lovino. I love you so much that it actually _hurts _me. Like when you're sad and happy at the same time because you love someone so much that everything they do makes you smile, but you're still sad because every single moment you're away from them makes your heart ache. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I don't want to let you go. Even if you don't be here next year, I will be. I can promise you that."

Lovino pulls away from him, steps back and off the bed, wiping his eyes. He says nothing.

Antonio just sighs. "We spoke about conceptual homes. The fact is, that's not a place. That's a feeling. And I feel it with you."

Lovino inhales sharply, composing himself. "Just…lie down, let me finish with your burn, Antonio."

Antonio stares at him for a long moment. It's like Lovino can see him closing up, a wall coming up to protect him from pain. When Antonio blinks, his eyes – formerly burning with passion – are empty. He wordlessly falls back against the pillows and says nothing for the rest of the night.

* * *

**A/N: I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY CHAPTERS ARE LEFT. I THOUGHT I DID, BUT I DON'T. But not many more after this, I'm certain xD **

**Also, Antonio blushing is adorable. Let's all just face that fact, guys.**

**And check out Spinyfruit's fic _The Afterport_! It's a gift fic for me, and it's just fabulous :3 **

**Thanks for reading! Please review :D **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Don't write me off yet! I'm so sorry for this super late update xD But man, what a crazy couple of weeks this has been D:**

**At the end of this chapter, I'm going to give you guys the full sound-track I used while brainstorming this fic. You have no idea how much these songs helped me set the tone xD**

**And oh – in this chapter, I'm jumping around POVs quite a bit, unlike the previous chapters. **

* * *

The guitarist strums a song filled with melancholy and nostalgia, raw and yet soothing. The sun rises long and slow, each golden drop of light falling like tears upon autumn-swept open roads. It's not raining, though. That's good. Lovino's not sure he can stand the thought of rain at the moment. It's one thing if the sun cries – the sun is the sun; it's the giver of life, and it's not going anywhere. Eventually, it'll stop weeping like it is right now – but the sky is a reflection, a mirror, a movie screen. The sky changes with the mood, the hour. Lovino projects onto the sky. And it is clear, lightly cloud-spattered and calm.

Surely that means that things will be okay.

The sun cries because of what it's seeing, what it's hearing.

But the sky depicts what Lovino is feeling, so that must mean he feels confident.

God, what is he even thinking? He doesn't even know. All this 'celestial body' crap. It doesn't even make sense. Lovino's hands loosen slightly from the steering wheel. He can't look at Antonio, who's pushed his seat all the way back and lies there staring at the open sunroof of the car, strumming away with a faraway expression in his eyes, as though his world his falling apart and the only thing he can do is play music to keep everyone calm.

Instantly, Lovino remembers the _Titanic _movie, but then he pushes that thought out of his mind, too. That's what he's been doing all morning. Dismissing his emotions, just like he used to. Before Paris. Before Antonio. It's easier this way. He doesn't want to deal with things right now. It's too painful. When he's on the plane to Rome, he'll allow himself to break down and weep. But he just can't do it in front of Antonio. It'll make the separation worse.

They don't get lost, this time. Lovino almost wishes they do, just so he can have a few more minutes, a few more hours. But Antonio hasn't said one word either, so he's not sure what they'll even talk about.

A loud sigh. Lovino doesn't glance at Antonio, but asks, "What happened?"

"Do we have a song?" Antonio wonders, his tone lazy and drawling.

"What?"

"Do we have a song?" Antonio repeats, but now he sounds firmer as he looks at Lovino.

"That's such clichéd couple nonsense."

"Who cares?"

"Fair enough."

"I think _That's Amore _should be our song. Because it's lovely, and because you made me play it for you the first time we met."

Lovino doesn't immediately reply, staring blankly ahead at the empty road. Walking up to Antonio had been the best and worst decision ever. That's the whole problem. Some people, when they become a part of your life, they change it. They destroy the old, rusted iron bars inside you. And then they leave you like that. You have to build yourself back up, except this time it's different, this time it's newer, richer, kinder, and suddenly you're a different _person_, living a different _existence_. Suddenly, everything you know and hate about yourself has transformed. The reflection in the mirror isn't one you've ever seen before.

"I like that song," Lovino says quietly.

Antonio chuckles. "Sing with me?"

"…I don't have a good voice."

"I like your voice. It's so pleasing. Like a warm drink on a cold night."

"Oh god, cut out the clichés, would you?"

"Sing with me, Lovi. Please."

Lovino sighs. How can he refuse this man when he uses that tone?

Antonio giggles softly as his fingers run down the strings of the guitar. "_In Napoli, where love is kiiiing, when boy meets girl, that's what they saaaaaay…_" Antonio's voice is soft, like he's humming a lullaby.

"_When the moon hits your eye_ –"

"_When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie_ –"

"_That's Amore_!"

They are not coordinated. Oh goodness, no. Lovino is singing slower than Antonio is, but this is nice. Both of them stumble over the words, because there are parts Lovino doesn't remember and Antonio gets confused with, neither of them have heard the original version in a while, but once they start, it's hard to stop. Pretty soon, they're singing to every single Dean Martin song Antonio knows how to play on his guitar.

"I think _La Vie En Rose _should be our song, actually," Antonio says after they finish singing that for the third time.

"Why?"

"Well, it's got a bit of a French feel to it, and we met in Paris. Plus, it's not specifically a song about a love between a man and a _woman_. It's more…what's the word…"

"Secular."

"Oh, right. Secular."

"Inclusive," Lovino rattles off.

"That too."

"Egalitarian."

"Oh Lovi, shut up."

Lovino laughs. "_Hold me close and hold me fast, the magic spell you cast, this is la vie en rose…" _

"Wait, wait, wait!" Antonio cries. "Wait, let me play it on the guitar –"

"_When you kiss me, heaven sighs_ –"

"Lovi!"

"_And though I close my eyes_ –"

"Will you –"

"_I see la vie en rose…_"

Antonio slams his hand down on his thigh, pouts, crosses his arms, and looks away. The whole thing is pretty comical, considering the position he's in. Lying down with the car seat almost flat, guitar on his chest. Lovino can't stop the laughter than escapes him.

"Ha, ha, very funny," Antonio mutters. "It's more fun singing with the guitar."

"It's more fun teasing you," Lovino quips, shaking his head. "You're right, _La Vie En Rose _should be our song."

Antonio raises an eyebrow and looks at him questioningly.

"I was making a memory," Lovino admits, his face going red. "I mean, if you want to be lame and choose a couple song and all that, might as well pick one that has a special memory, right? _That's Amore _had a nice memory, but you prefer _La Vie En Rose_, so I had to make a memory with that one."

"Oh," Antonio says simply.

"Oh," Lovino repeats, still teasing.

"That's…"

"Yes?"

"Adorable."

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

By the time they reach Paris, Antonio has slipped into numbness. He needs it. His protective shield. He can't cry in front of Lovino. It would just make things worse. He's not sure he'll ever see this man again. Well, ever see him in _person _again. He's pretty sure Lovino will be all over the news in no time, some romantic scandal or the other making headlines in the entertainment section.

No, no, _no_. He can't think like that, he just can't. Lovino _loves _him. Lovino wouldn't –

But would he? It's not like there's any confusion on the matter. Lovino has made it perfectly clear that when they separate, they separate for good. Despite Antonio's plea to meet in Normandy again the next year. To be worthy of each other.

Gilbert would say Antonio is being dramatic.

Francis would say he's being romantic.

But the truth is, Antonio is being spiritual.

He's not…damaged. He's not. He's just afraid of staying put. Lovino isn't damaged either. Lovino's just afraid of leaving. These aren't serious, life-threatening situations. But they're chokeholds. Cages. What Antonio wants is simple. He wants to be worthy of Lovino. To fix himself. And for Lovino to do the same. For the two of them to be brave enough to be happy with their own lives. It's only then that they have even the slightest chance.

But Lovino doesn't want to try, so that's that.

Neither of them has spoken a word about this after the night Antonio proposed the idea. After that night, they didn't make love quite as often. They didn't really _talk_ like they used to…Antonio's ruined everything.

Paris looms. All around them, the buildings, the streets, the people.

_Welcome back, mincemeat. _

Antonio closes his eyes and slips deeper into his cocoon. As they reach the airport, it's all Antonio can do to not pool in the rest of his money and buy a ticket right out of there. To Sweden. Or North Korea. Can he even travel there? Do airlines allow it? He just needs to go somewhere he hasn't been. (And he's been to Sweden, too.) How about Antarctica? Oh, Colombia. He hasn't been there, has he? What if he could –

"Are you all right?" Lovino asks gently.

"Of course," Antonio replies, his response too quick. "Why?"

"You're breathing is slightly irregular." Lovino has parked the car, and places one hand on Antonio's. "I want you to calm down."

"I'm calm." _Stop. Thinking. Zone. Out. _"I'm calm," Antonio says again, and this time he knows he sounds…drugged, or something. He's forcing his brain to shut down, go on autopilot. It numbs the pain, the anxiety.

Lovino studies him. God, those golden eyes. Please, Lovino, don't leave. Don't leave. _Don't leave me._

"We should get your suitcases." The sentence is spoken with a hint of _spite_, which comes as a genuine surprise to Antonio. And to Lovino. He physically recoils, blinking and staring at Antonio in shock and then hurt. Antonio closes his eyes and presses the bridge of his nose. This is not working. "I'm sorry. I don't…I…I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Lovino looks away, staring at his lap. "It's okay. You're right. We should get the suitcases."

So that's just what they do. It's those designer suitcases that all look the same and have the same pattern, Gucci or Armani or whatever, Antonio doesn't even _know_, he's _never _cared, can't Lovino _see _that? Antonio doesn't care about his money or his fame or that nonsense all his other girlfriends and boyfriends stick with him for. Antonio loves him for that free-spirited, sarcastic, wine-hating, prodigal chef that he is. Antonio loves him because Lovino is kind and smart, gentle yet fierce, Lovino is everything Antonio needs, can't he fucking _see _that?

_Don't leave me._

_Come back._

As Antonio's taking out the bags, Lovino's found a trolley. They're working silently, as though this is mere routine. As though Lovino's just on one of his work trips, and he'll be back tomorrow night. They're avoiding eye-contact. They're avoiding physically touching each other, too.

People all around them. Mothers with screaming babies, smartly dressed businessmen, families and old people, airport workers, air-hostesses, security personnel. Antonio's eyes wander over to a couple of travellers. He knows his kind. He can sense them out anywhere. Dressed awkwardly, dreadlocks for hair, tattoos, patched-up suitcases, and a sort of coolness. _I can handle this_, their body language says.

Suddenly, their eyes scan across the place and meet Antonio's. He almost drops one of Lovi's bags.

Where are they going? Where did they come from? What's their story? Antonio is part of that kind. The sort that never stops, never sleeps. Antonio has a lifetime of experiences. He collects them. He's done things people could never dream of doing. Antonio does not shy away from adventure. He doesn't fear pain.

He could go with them…

He's done it before. Befriended and tagged along with complete strangers.

His eyes wander over to Lovino.

Befriended, travelled with, and fallen in love with complete strangers.

_Shatter._

There goes his composure. The numbness. There goes his spite. Down falls the tension. Antonio drops the suitcase. The sky is cracking and opening up. The ground is water, Antonio can't stand. The world around him – sound, light, colour – twists and shifts and changes. He's in a movie. This is all an animation. Everything is unsteady and confusing.

Lovino, The North Star, stares into Antonio. The anchor. The map to the way back home.

Antonio wants to throw his arms around Lovino and cry. But he realises he doesn't have to.

Lovino is holding him. Arms around his neck, firm and desperate and hungry for more. Kisses that always seem too short, each touch – skin, skin, skin – burning through clothing, temperatures hot and cold charging through bloodstreams, the taste of him, coffee and cinnamon, something sweeter like honey, the smell of his cologne and sweat and a lingering aroma of wine in his clothes, why is he so perfect?

When they pull away, Lovino's looking at him very seriously. He's so composed. How is he so composed. "This day next year, Normandy. Right?"

And the sensation hits again. Everything spiralling out of control and Lovino's the only thing that makes sense. Actually, Antonio's always felt that. Everything's always zooming in haphazard patterns, time and money and place, nothing ever makes sense because he never lets it, nothing ever lasts because he runs, and then there's Lovino who makes him stop and want to stay rooted, because for the first time ever, he _cares _about where he is.

"You…" Antonio whispers. He's so giddy with happiness. He can barely breathe.

"Oh my god, is that Lovino Vargas? Hey, you're the guy in the news, right?"

Lovino jumps out of Antonio's arms like he's on fire, and a few people stop and stare at him. The woman who shouted is waving around a newspaper and she's standing only a few feet away from them with her dark sunglasses and her cruelly awed face.

Lovino's gone red again, and he's stammering and all he wants to do is run. Antonio can see it.

So, he steps in.

Perfect Spanish.

"_No, I'm sorry, you must be mistaken. This is Romano Carriedo, although I admit there is a bit of a resemblance. Sorry, do you speak Spanish?"_

Lovi and the woman are gaping at him, and Antonio nudges Lovino gently, saying, _"Romano, we should really be going inside. You'll miss your flight."_

The woman then looks at Lovino.

"Uh…_si_?" he mumbles, and Antonio almost laughs. Lovino doesn't know much Spanish, does he? He's just said the only word he knows. Antonio holds Lovino's hand and drags him off, away from that evil woman and her stupid tabloid, trying to ignore how she's made Lovino look so delicate.

When they're safely away from her and into the airport, Lovino sighs loudly and falls into Antonio's chest, burying his head in his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Hey, come on. Don't mention it."

"I don't know if it worked, but thank you."

"Lo—Romano," Antonio teases gently, and Lovino chuckles. It sounds breathy and exhausted, though, and when he pulls away, Lovino's nose is red and he looks like he's fighting back tears.

"I should change my name to Romano," he mutters.

"Romano Carriedo," Antonio teases.

"That."

"Maybe you can call your restaurant Romano, huh?"

"What?"

"Yeah, whenever you get your restaurant. You should call it Romano. I don't know, I guess I just see it like a symbol of freedom or something…how cheesy is that?"

"It's not a symbol of freedom. It's a lie."

"Then make it the truth."

"Antonio, just…please." Lovino rubs his face tiredly. "Normandy. Next year. As I was saying when that stupid bitch interrupted me."

"You remember the deal?"

"I do. I'll have quit. And you'll have…stayed."

"Yep."

They say nothing for a moment, but it's a pleasant sort of awkward. Finally, Antonio says, "I'll really, really miss you."

"You can always Google me," Lovino teases, and Antonio's glad he's at least smiling.

"Well, there's that."

"I won't get into any more scandals." Lovino is holding Antonio's hands. "Unless that scandal is with _you_. And judging from the looks we're getting, that's a likely possibility."

Antonio merely glances around for a moment. People are staring, but that's probably because they're rude and they find it different to see two men showing their affections publically. Although it shouldn't be such a big deal. This is, of course, Paris. The city of love.

"They're just jealous," Antonio replies easily.

"Yeah, I bet." Lovino takes his hands back and lowers his eyes. "I should go now."

"I love you."

"I love you too. God, Antonio, I love you too. I know I have the shittiest track record ever, but I do mean what I said."

"I know that." Antonio smiles. He believes it. He was losing faith in himself, in Lovino, in them, but now he's not so insecure. Lovino has quelled his fears, and everything is okay again. Or well, it will be. He's sure of it.

Antonio waves cheerfully as Lovino walks away, and Lovino gives him one of his small smiles as he waves back. Although Lovino's far less spirited about the whole thing, Antonio can see the lightning in his eyes. He knows Lovino's feeling exactly what he is feeling right now.

What the hell _is _Antonio feeling, anyway?

When he smiles, he feels happy. It's his mask, but it's also a switch.

But now the smile has gone. He walks out of the airport and jumps into Gilbert's car.

He's feeling…

_Welcome back, mincemeat._

The buildings are closing in on him.

He feels…

Cornered.

* * *

Poor network on a cheap mobile phone.

"Francis, where are you?"

"_Toni? It's one in the afternoon on a Saturday. Lunch rush. Where do you think I'd be?"_

"I need you."

"_Antonio, what's going on? Where are you? Are you all right?"_

"I'm under the Eiffel Tower and I need you."

"_You – you're in Paris!? I thought you'd be in Normandy. Or Sweden, I don't know."_

"I'm in Paris."

"_I'll be free in a couple of hours, so then we can –"_

"Francis, I need you now."

"_Toni, I…"_

"Please. _Dios_, please."

"…"

"Hello?"

"_Stay put. I'm on my way."_

* * *

A payphone.

"Feli?"

"_LOVINO. WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"_

"Whoa – are you cussing?!"

"_DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I'VE CALLED YOU? TEXTED YOU? EMAILED YOU?"_

"Sorry, sorry. My phone fell down a cliff."

"_What?!_"

"Yeah, it's a long story."

"_And I called the hotel and they told me you'd checked out and I called the hotels at Lyon and Bordeaux and they told me you never made it! I was going to call the police! Grandpa is sick with worry!"_

"Look, calm down, let's all just calm down. I'm at the airport. My flight for Rome is in an hour. I'm fine, everything is fine. I was in Normandy."

"_What? Why would you go there?_"

"I…hitched a ride with a friend I made."

"…_A friend._"

"Yes."

"_Lovi, is this one like your 'friends' who end up in newspapers with you?_"

"…No."

"_No_?"

"No. Anyway, it's a story for another time. I called to say…I…well, I wanted to hear your voice."

"…_Is everything okay?_"

"No."

"_What's wrong, Lovi?_ _Hey, are you crying?_"

"No…yes."

"_Lovino, what happened?_"

"Nothing…I…we'll talk when I get home."

"_Lovi, talk to me! What's wrong?_"

"Look, I'm on a payphone, there are people waiting for their turn. Just have the car pick me up at Rome."

"_But_ –"

"I love you. See you soon, Feli."

* * *

Francis, being Francis, has brought wine. They sit on a bench under the Eiffel Tower and watch swarms of people go by, although Francis insists it isn't all that bad, that this is off-season and it's not actually that crowded. Antonio has buried his head into Francis shoulder and just cries and cries and cries. Francis had initially tried to talk to him, but gave up. Antonio's grateful. He needs this.

He hasn't touched the wine. He doesn't think he can. Wine reminds him too much of Lovi.

It's sunset when Antonio finally becomes quiet, leaning on Francis in a semi-conscious stupor. Crying is exhausting. Antonio knows Francis understands that. Francis has known heartbreak intimately. He never talks about it, but the way Francis approaches the idea of love is so cautious, so tender. It's how a survivor might look at it. It's like with every touch, every word, Francis is really saying, _I empathise. I know._

Only when it's dark outside does Antonio finally speak.

"Sorry."

"For what, _cher_?"

"You know what."

"No, I don't."

"For ruining your day. And stuff."

"And for making my shirt completely wet with tears?"

"Yes…that, too."

"Yes, it's a disaster. How in the world can I salvage a wet shirt? It's the end of the world, I tell you." When Francis's attempt at making Antonio laugh just makes him tear up again, the Frenchman sighs. He pulls Antonio into another hug. He's lost track of how many they've had over the last few hours, but he doesn't mind. Antonio completely curls into him, but he's exhausted and wrung dry, so he doesn't cry all that much. They just sit like that for several minutes.

"It's cold outside, isn't it?" Francis muses. "We'll have a long winter this year…"

"I guess." Antonio pulls away and lets out a shuddering breath.

"Do you want to go get something warm to drink?"

"No…Unless you want to."

"No, no, I'm fine. I have my wine to warm me up." Francis rummages around his bag and pulls out two glasses. Only he can carry stuff like that around without it breaking. His eyes twinkle in the low light of streetlamps as he says, "Come now, Toni, share it with me. It's not a Vargas."

"…How did you know?"

"How did I know what? That you've fallen head-over-heels for that pretty Italian playboy?"

"Yes…"

"Because you wear your heart on your sleeve. We're very similar, the two of us."

"Is that why you're so guarded with Arthur?" Antonio wonders softly. "Because you don't want that to blow up in your face?"

Francis laughs, but it's rather sad. "Let's talk about you, Toni. Tell me what happened. From the start."

So that's what Antonio does.

It takes another hour to recount the whole story, right up to that promise for Normandy again. Francis is shaking his head as he finishes his third glass of wine,

"I should be happy that we're meeting next year. That it'll be all okay after that. I don't know why I'm so sad."

"Because you're scared. That's okay. Everyone's a little scared of love. I'm yet to meet a person who isn't."

"That's a bit weird, isn't it? Everyone…well, most people, want love so badly."

"That's exactly why they're scared of it," Francis replies cryptically.

"Really?"

"Oh goodness, yes. You were in Thailand, I think, when Gilbert decided he wanted to marry Madeline. For weeks, he was so nervous and sad and scared, you'd think he'd just broken up with her."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, then he got a grip and bought a ring. What I mean to say is, if it means something to you, you _will _be afraid. That's completely normal."

"It's still weird."

"The best kinds of normals are always weird."

"You should write a book with quotes like that."

"_Oui_, I should, shouldn't I?" Francis teases, his lips curling upwards slightly.

"What should I do now?"

"Well, right now, you should finish that wine in your glass. Then you should come home, have a shower and something to eat, and then sleep early. Tomorrow, you should pool together the last of your money and go back to Spain. Remember, Toni, you promised Lovino."

"You think I'm being stupid?" Antonio asks suddenly, although the question is not aggressive, but genuinely curious. "He lives in tabloids and money. And I'm…well, I live everywhere. It's not the most ideal situation, is it?"

"Who am I to deem what's stupid and what isn't?" says Francis.

"You know everything about love."

"Who ever knows everything about anything, Antonio? Especially about something as complicated and changeable as love?" Francis sighs and his eyes wander away. "I know nothing about love. Only that it hurts." But he looks at Antonio now and offers a smile. "But sometimes, it's worth it."

"If it's worth it, then why are you afraid of loving Arthur?"

Francis's smile tightens. "Finish your wine so we can go home."

Antonio sighs and empties his glass in one long gulp.

* * *

On the first day, Lovino says he's tired and he doesn't want to talk about it. On the second day, he checks his email and buys a new cell-phone. On the third day, he's been on a conference call for three hours when Feliciano enters his room with a bottle of wine and two glasses. They don't speak just yet. Lovino's still on the phone for another thirty minutes, a steady headache in his temples, going on and on about sales and produce and marketing and when he finally puts his phone down, Feli pops open the wine and pours it.

"None for me."

Feli almost drops the bottle as he raises his head sharply and gapes at his brother. "What?"

"None for me," Lovino repeats, flopping down on his bed. "I don't want any."

"But…it's one of the extra-nice ones! _From Grandpa's personal collection_! A very nice Nebbiolo from the 1980s! Anise flavoured!"

"Feli, I said no, okay?"

There's a clink as Feliciano puts the bottle down. "Okay, now I really am worried. What's going on with you? You've been weird since you got back from your vacation, and that's the whole reason Grandpa wanted you to go in the first place. To relax and get a nice break!"

"I've been weird?" Lovino asks, although it's a stupid question because he really has been rather shifty. He's not sure who to be anymore. Should he be the Lovino that Feli and his grandfather have become accustomed to seeing? Or should he be the person he was with Antonio? Because he's trying to be both right now, and the only thing that's produced is a migraine.

"Um, _yes_?" Feli says, crawling onto the bed with Lovino and crossing his legs under him. "Before Paris, you seemed tired and unhappy. Now, you seem ten times worse." Feliciano paused and then added, "Bartolomeo's been signed on as our brand ambassador. He's coming over to discuss something with Grandpa. He wanted to meet you."

"Really?" Lovino replies, his tone mild. "When is he coming?"

"In an hour."

"Oh. Feli, do these clothes look okay on me?"

"Yes, of course they do!"

"Okay enough to go out in?"

"Yep! Really stylish."

"Great." Lovino pushes himself off bed, grabs the keys to his Alfa Romeo and says, "When Bartolomeo shows up, tell him I'm out and I won't be back until later."

Feliciano just stares. "W-what? I thought you'd want to meet up with him. Go out on a date or something. Did you break up with him, too?" Feli rubs his face. "I can't keep track with you," he mumbles and then laughs.

He can't exactly blame Feli, either. "Don't worry. I'm not going to be dating anybody for a while."

This time, Feli actually does drop his wine glass. It makes an awful purple stain all over Lovino's white bed sheet, but neither of the two reacts. Lovino just stares at the slowly spreading mark languidly, and Feli just stares slack-jawed at his older brother. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not."

"Lovino," Feliciano says, and his voice has lost all its humour. "Something really bad has happened with you, and I want you to tell me. You were crying on the phone with me the other day, and I'm worried about you."

Lovino's not sure how he ought to react. Whatever happened between him and Antonio was not _bad_. It had been the best thing that had ever happened to Lovino, in fact. Separation, though. It's making him ache all over. Everything reminds him of Antonio, everything. The thought of Alfonsina or Bartolomeo or any of his hundreds of bedfellows make him grimace. It's so disgusting. Antonio's the only one who's made him feel a little…clean.

"I'm okay, really," he says although he's not and he can't put his finger on it. It's not just separation. It's more. It's more serious than that.

"No, no you're not. Talk to me. What's wrong?"

Lovino tosses the keys into the air and catches them. Once, twice, thrice. "I'll tell you later," he says simply before turning and walking out.

Day four comes, and then day five. The word 'later' is becoming rather standard. He utters it every time Grandpa or Feli ask him about the trip, about what's bothering him, or even about why he'd gone to Normandy. He's not sure where to even begin, and he's convinced they're not going to take him seriously.

But dammit, dammit, he's _promised _Antonio. He needs to do this.

On day six, he opens Google and types '_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo travel blog_'. Both of them are so stupid. They spent two weeks fucking and falling in love with each other, and neither had the presence of mind to ask for _any _kind of contact information. Lovino's pretty sure Antonio wrote his number down on that stupid tissue with Gilbert's address, but Lovino had gone and thrown that away without saving it because he is an idiot and he does stupid things like that.

But Antonio had once vaguely mentioned he had a travel blog, so Lovino now needs to find it. Maybe there's an email address there. Hell, he could even leave a comment. He just really, really needs to speak to Antonio. He needs to feel a little less alone.

After about twenty minutes, he stumbles onto it. It's a Wordpress blog, full of pictures and short posts and quotes, everything about it is so _Antonio_. It's deep red, and in the 'About' section, Lovino finds himself tearing up.

_Hi! I'm Antonio, although my friends call me Toni! I'm from Spain, but I consider myself a Global Citizen :D I love to travel and I've been doing it for years. This is basically where I write/post pictures about my experiences. _

_Since I'm a budget traveller, I'll be posting lots of tips/advice on how to see the world despite being totally broke (like yours truly, haha!). _

_I may not be very regular because I'm always on the go, and free wifi isn't always available, but do know that I really appreciate everyone who reads/follows/comments on this blog. _

_Please respect my copyright over all the pictures and posts. _

_I hope you enjoy this blog!_

_Bon voyage!_

The stupidest thing is that he's reading this in Antonio's voice, with that Spanish accent and a mischievous laugh punctuating every few sentences.

It gets even worse when he looks at the most recent post. The blog hasn't been updated since late August – before Lovino met him.

_Hi, everyone!_

_Just giving you guys a quick update!_

_So I'll be leaving Madrid tonight and going to Portugal (Lisbon, sweet Lisbon, how I've missed thee!) and I'll be going on a road trip (here's hoping the car I rented is actually available – stupid clerical mix-up, it's a long story) so that should keep me busy for a most of September and early October. And then I'm going to take a train to Paris around mid-October! I'll be meeting with Francis and Gilbert (oh, you should see the album called 'Easy Living in Paris' from last year! It's full of pictures of cheap and yummy places to eat, and Francis and Gilbert are in the pics, too!). _

_After Paris, I've planned to go to Tangiers, which might not even happen because 1) I've already been there 2) It's a stupid idea, geographically speaking. I mean, if I wanted to go to Morocco, I should have just started from Spain, so I don't know. Eh, whatever, we'll see :P I hate making too many plans, anyway._

_BUT I want to talk about Portugal some more. So I'm doing this cool project. Yes, it's a nation-wide road-trip, and the reason it'll take so long is because I'm exploring the quieter parts of it. I'm going to start at Lisbon and drive through all the towns and villages, stopping at each one for a night or a couple of days at the most. I'm going to try and find out some cool little trivia from each of the places I go to, because hey, the best part of a place is what you don't necessarily see!_

_I'm calling this The Portugal Project and because it's so big and ambitious, I've made a mini-blog for it. You can check out it out __**here**__. _

_Ah! Anyway, I have to go now because I'm at the airport and they've been calling my name on the mic for ten minutes now :'D Okay, bye. _

"Why are you crying? What are you reading?" Feli asks, making Lovino jerk out of his daze and tear his eyes away from the computer screen. Feliciano has run up to him and is peering over his shoulder. "What's this, Lovi?"

"Shut up, go away, this is personal," Lovino says weakly, before pathetically allowing his voice to crack. Feli sighs softly before pulling Lovino close to him. Lovino buries his face in Feli's stomach and silently weeps for several minutes, with Feli running his hands through his hair as he sings Italian songs to him.

That stupid blog and that stupid post and that stupid Antonio. Now he's just desperate for the man. He misses him so much it's crazy. It's not normal.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Feli says finally after Lovino stops and pulls away.

Lovino nods. "But I'll tell you tomorrow. At dinner. With Grandpa."

Feliciano raises an eyebrow. "Promise me?"

"Promise."

Later, when Feli leaves, Lovino washes his face and sits at the computer again. He looks at that post, looks at the comment button. He stares at it for a stupidly long time, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it.

**Romano (Guest): **

**Hey, you. How have you been? I'm pretty sure I have withdrawal symptoms from that Normandy trip. **

And then he deletes everything he's written, takes the cursor away from the comment text box and in a mild panic, closes the browser. Then, for good measure, he switches his computer off and then throws himself on the bed, burying his head under the covers.

"Just how lame am I?" he wonders out loud, although it's a little muffled because of all the bedding.

* * *

He's been planning this all of last night. The next morning, he goes looking for all the ingredients he needs. This shall be a complicated meal. Lovino's out of practice, but he's got all day to work this out. He can't mess it up, he just can't. It has to go exactly how he planned it in his head.

He starts with a potato chicken salad. The main course should be a manicotti. Lovino's making the finest tiramisu in the country for dessert, and though he doesn't like the drink, he goes to down to their personal wine cellar and spends an inordinate amount of time picking out what, in his opinion, would go perfectly with the meal.

He doesn't touch Grandpa's collection – the man can be so stupidly possessive about that – but Feli owns quite a large number of fancy wines, so there's still plenty to choose from.

He's picked out a new tablecloth and asked one of the maids to help him choose the best plates and cutlery, which she does through her giggling.

And when Feli and Grandpa emerge from their respective studies discussing work, both of them pause in mid-sentence and sniff the air. Grandpa's eyes become wide as he looks at Lovino. "Did you make that? It smells amazing." The food is laid out on the table and plated to perfection. Lovino definitely has outdone himself.

"Thank you," he replies simply, offering a small smile. "Shall we eat?"

Feli looks like he can't believe what the hell is going on. Lovino cooking is not a rare thing. He always does the cooking on weekends. But _this _seems astonishingly elaborate. There are two salads, five varieties of pasta and pizza, a bread basket, tiramisu and homemade gelato.

Lovino then pours the wine with cool, professional hands before sitting down and raising his own glass – he's drinking the stuff too – and saying, "To new relationships."

"New relationships?" Grandpa asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, you know, Feli and that guy, Ludwig. And we got into a nice partnership with that German wine brand, too. I thought a celebration was in order."

Feli glances at Grandpa. "Right…" his brother says slowly. Lovino's never made such a big deal out of any of Feli's relationships, and he's certainly never wanted to celebrate a new business partnership.

"Try the salad," Lovino says easily, taking a sip from his glass.

"Which one?" Feli asks.

"Both of them. And that sauce there – yeah, that one – should go really well – yes, just mix it in, there you go."

"Okay, Lovino, what is this really about? Did you crash your car or something?" Grandpa asks with a small grin as he takes a forkful of the salad. "Oh god, this is wonderful." He closes his eyes as he swallows, shaking his head in amazement. "I keep forgetting just _how _good a chef you are."

"Heh, about that…" Lovino begins slowly, taking another sip of wine. He needs to be a little bit tipsy to get through this. "I – I meant to talk to both of you…about something…important."

"Yes?" Grandpa asks as Feli puts his fork down, peering at Lovino with narrowed eyes.

"I," Lovino begins and then pauses.

"Don't you dare," Feli suddenly snaps, sitting up straighter. "You _promised _you'd tell, so spill!"

Grandpa looks between Lovino and Feli. "Boys, what's going on?"

Lovino lowers his eyes, twists pasta around his fork, and mumbles, "It might ruin your palate. I worked hard on this meal, so…It can wait."

Feli is glaring at him. "We're not even worth a decent excuse," he mutters coldly and in the most un-Feli-like way, making Lovino's shoulders go tense and Grandpa blink in shock.

"Seriously, what the hell is going on?" he asks after a moment, placing Lovino under a piercing stare.

Lovino sighs. "Okay, so I've been pretty…upset since I came back from Paris."

Feli looks up and Grandpa nods. "Yes," the eldest Vargas replies, "Feli and I have noticed."

"Right. Well…a lot has happened over the last couple of weeks. I…I want to start by saying that…I want to quit."

Quit. The word sounds like a whip cracking.

It has much the same reaction, too. Grandpa drops his fork and Feli drops his jaw.

"What do you mean 'quit'?" Grandpa repeats, his voice shaking just a little.

"I mean, quit. I don't want to work for the company any more." Lovino's not sure how he's doing this. His whole body feels cold and vulnerable.

"You don't want to work in the family business," Grandpa says, looking at Lovino like he's murdered someone.

"Well, when you put it that way –"

And then Romulus Vargas pushes his chair back, grabs his glass of wine and walks out of the room.

* * *

According to Gilbert – and Gilbert's very good with this financial stuff – Antonio needs to work eight hours a day at a halfway decent job and sell his apartment to be able to pay off everything he owes to people he's borrowed from to travel. And now that Antonio's done that, he's living in a tiny rented flat above a couple of drunks. His neighbour has this bad habit of blasting music at four in the morning.

But he's promised Lovino, so he's just going to shut up and deal with it.

Work.

He's got three jobs. He spends his day working at KFC, his evenings playing music for restaurants, and his weekends teaching people the guitar. Just like the old times. Except now, there's no prospect of _When I Save Enough_. He usually waits and waits and saves and saves until he's got enough cash to fund another wild adventure, but now it's all about staying rooted.

He's constantly looking through his photographs. Lovino looks so wonderful in every single one of them. He wants to gush to the whole world about his perfect Lovi, but he avoids his blog like the plague. Whatever happened in Normandy was too personal for a stupid blog post. There's that, and then there's the other reason. If he looks through his old pictures, he's going to want to travel again. And he's not about to break his promise.

He's still always waiting for the lame hope that maybe Lovi's found his blog and maybe he'll type a comment. Lovino's not on Facebook, which doesn't surprise him. He's not on Twitter either, even though he's kind of a public figure. But Lovino is all over Google. All he needs to do is type the name and browse through pictures and posts and headlines and comments, but they just make him very sad.

Lovino's scandal with this actress and that businessman and this politician and that wine merchant – it's all the same. He trusts Lovino, but he's so jealous, too. And there's the added fact of having no contact with him. Why didn't they just properly exchange numbers?! Or email addresses!? _Or something_?

"_You can always write him a letter. It's so much more romantic than a text, anyway_," Francis tells him after Antonio's complained about this over the phone.

"I don't know where he lives!"

"_Hmm, well, you can always find the Vargas HQ. I think it's somewhere in Rome. Send your letter there, addressed to him. It'll find its way into his hands somehow."_

"Oh, yeah. I could do that!"

"_Toni? Sorry, but maybe you shouldn't be making international calls. Considering the expenses…"_

Antonio groans before he cuts the phone.

But he finds out the address of the HQ. Francis is such a genius! Now all Antonio has to do is post a letter.

So he sits down, takes a pen and notebook, and writes,

_Dear Lovi,_

Before staring blankly at it for half an hour. His alarm clock rings around then, telling him it's time to go to one of those many restaurants to play music.

"This is so stupid!" Antonio cries before ripping the notebook paper and crushing it.

He doesn't try writing the letter again.

* * *

Lovino feels light, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he is slightly drunk. Right now, he's online and looking through his bank account, working out his financials and trying to figure out what he needs to do in order to get his own restaurant. Admittedly, most of the money he flaunts is _Grandpa_'s money, and though Lovino's pretty well-off, he's not _wealthy_. Most of the income he gets from his work is locked into fixed deposits of long tenures.

But he's feeling light because something huge is off his chest and now it's no longer his problem.

There's a knock on the room door. Lovino turns.

Grandpa is there, wine and two glasses as a piece offering, along with two plates of tiramisu that have gone untouched since dinner.

"Hi," he says with a small smile.

"Hi," Lovino says back.

"So…I reacted badly." Grandpa places the tray on the nightstand and sits down on the bed, looking at Lovino seriously. Lovino's on a chair by his desk, regarding his grandfather with a reserved sort of curiosity.

"Yeah, you reacted badly," Lovino says after a moment.

"I'm sorry. I guess I was just shocked. Let's talk about this. Like adults."

"I'm tipsy. Just saying."

"That's fine," Grandpa laughs. "I'm a little buzzed too, but I'm in my senses enough to talk about this."

"Okay. That's good. So am I."

"All right, so tell me from the start. You don't want to work for the company any more?"

"It's nothing personal, you know that. I adore you and Feli. And I'm not asking for a huge severance or anything. It's just…well, you know, when I joined, you and I both agreed this was temporary. Six months, a year, maybe. But it's been _three years_, Grandpa, and I'm not happy. This kind of work doesn't make me happy."

"You want to be a chef."

"It's what I've always wanted. I don't even like wine."

"How are we related?" Grandpa wonders, but he's smiling.

Lovino flushes. "Well, I can _tolerate _it, but it's not my favourite drink. I don't _have _a favourite drink. But that's not the point. The point is, I want to work at a restaurant. Well, I want to own one, but I think it's smarter to first work as a sous-chef or something and get back into the feel of things."

Grandpa picks up the two plates of tiramisu. "Considering the fact that we're both tipsy and you don't like wine, let's have this. I've always loved your tiramisu."

Lovino stares at the offered dessert. "You mean you're okay with this?"

"Well…I won't lie, Lovi. I really like having you work with me. You're smart and efficient. But you're also my grandson, and if you're not happy, then I'm not happy. So yes, I'm okay with it. I don't want you to sit there and resent me and hate your job…It's not a nice thought, is it?"

"I suppose it isn't," Lovino concedes with a small smile, accepting the tiramisu. "Thank you."

"Is there something else you want to tell me?" Grandpa asks, and there's a knowing smile in his eyes.

"What?" Lovino is glaring weakly at him.

"Feli told me there might be…ah, something…_personal _going on with you."

Lovino turns violently red and looks at the computer. "I…I just…well…I fucking hate how observant he is," Lovino mutters finally, burying his head in his hands.

Grandpa pats the side of the bed next to him, and Lovino, like a crying three-year-old, slides off the chair and curls up next to his grandfather. He doesn't let the man see his face. He really is shedding silent tears.

"Now, tell me what's wrong."

"Separation," Lovino says quietly. "Uncertainty." A pause, and then, "Love."

"Oh dear," Grandpa sighs. "I think you'll have to slow down a bit and give me a moment. Love?"

"I met someone. In Paris." Lovino is playing with his thumbs.

"Oh, really?"

"And don't patronize me, okay? I know I'm a man-slut, but this is different."

Grandpa laughs. "When I was your age, I was just as bad. It runs in the family."

"But you met grandma and everything changed."

"Exactly, so I'm not going to patronize you. Tell me."

"His name…is Antonio. He…" and then Lovino's suddenly rambling on and on about how perfect Antonio is and what a lovely smile he has and how fearless and free-spirited he is and that trip to Normandy and Antonio's travelling and the whole thing about going back to Normandy next year and having changed their ways and _everything. _Any other time, Lovino would have been mortified, but now he just wants to stop feeling so damn lonely and Grandpa's listening and he just wants to feel protected, like he's a child again.

When he's finally done, the both of them sit in silence for a few minutes.

And then Grandpa says, "Feli, you can stop eavesdropping and come on in."

"Fuck," Lovino mutters quietly. "I knew it was too good to be true when he conveniently vanished after dinner."

"Oh please, he calmed me down enough to go talk to you. He helped me see sense."

Feli walks into the room, an enormous smile on his face. "Antonio sounds really nice." And with that, he sits next to Lovi and pulls him into a hug. "This explains a lot, actually."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm not in a cuddly mood."

"Hey, I'll take the day off on Monday and we can go look for restaurants with openings!" Feli gushes.

"Yes, that's a good idea," Grandpa agrees, nodding as he pats Lovino on the back. "I'm so glad all of this is sorted out. If either of you have something to confess, now's the time, because I'm mentally prepared to handle it."

Lovino chuckles but shakes his head.

Feli pauses. "Well, if you insist…"

"Oh boy," Grandpa says quietly, making Lovino snicker some more.

Feli grins too. "I sort of hate long-distance relationships, but I really think things might work out with Luddy."

"Define 'work out'," Lovino says slowly, looking at his younger brother with protective instincts soaring.

"Weeeelll," Feli says with a giggle and a blush, "We're going to Florence next month. I'll answer your question after that trip."

Grandpa presses the bridge of his nose, much like Antonio is wont to do when he wants to clear his head. "No, it turns out, I'm wrong. I'm not mentally prepared to handle this."

"Maybe you should sleep, old man," Lovino teases.

"Oh goodness, maybe I should," Grandpa mutters, draining his glass of wine before he takes his plate of tiramisu and walks out of the room.

* * *

Antonio breaks several times in the next few weeks. Anxiety attacks and desperate cravings for away-ness.

But his bank account _is _growing, slowly, steadily. And every time he feels like he might just give in, spend all that money and _run_, he writes Lovino's name on his arm. There are days when his skin is completely covered with _Lovi Lovi Lovino Lovino Romano Romano Carriedo Lovino Vargas _again and again and again.

One day, Antonio's typing _Lovino Vargas _into the Google again (as he does at least thrice a week). He comes across a headline that makes him scream into his lumpy, mouldy pillow with absolute euphoria.

* * *

Lovino's working under this irritable chef who hates everything and likes taking it out on Lovino. But it's a decent restaurant with a large influx of the tourist trade, and everyone else is quite friendly, all of the united with the common dislike for their boss. So it's okay, really.

It was last month that the papers ran the story.

_**VARGAS GRANDSON TO QUIT FAMILY BUSINESS  
Investors and customers shocked, await more news**_

There were others, the ones he was used to. The snide articles that constantly berated him.

_**ANOTHER BREAK-UP FOR LOVINO VARGAS  
Millionaire playboy to leave wine industry for fine dining**_

But who cares? WHO CARES!?

Oh god, oh god, _LOVINO IS FREE!_

* * *

Antonio loves sound. The echoing airport corridors. Muffled announcements. Buzz, chatter, foreign accents. Concerned mothers, hassled fathers, children who think it's a game. Whirr of suitcase wheels against marble flooring. Beeping, clacking, humming. Conveyer belts and travelators. Antonio knows these sounds intimately. He has captured all of them in some corner of his mind, weaving them into the strings of his guitar, breathing into them the hope and freedom that he feels every time he hears them.

It is either late night or early morning, and Antonio knows he's arrived sooner than required. His flight isn't for another three hours. He sits on a gunmetal grey chair, its black cushions not comfortable enough as he tosses and twists in his seat, wringing his hands together and trying to bring his heartbeat down. His excitement has crossed the range of happiness, and is now verging on stress.

A couple of bags and his guitar case. Old, scratched up, travel-worn, thirsty for a home and a little less adventure. Stickers are the only souvenirs. Antonio does not need any more. His apartment has always been tiny and bare, hardly ever slept-in. Six months at jobs he can't stand, the other six travelling the world.

Antonio has spent his whole life running away.

His feet always at the threshold of the departure gate, waiting for the chance to escape.

But tonight, tonight he is going to _arrive_.

* * *

Lovino needs to make this journey alone. So he doesn't let his brother or his grandfather see him off at the airport. He apologises; they understand. Brisk goodbye hugs at the door, a waiting taxi, four bags. Pale hands, red face, amber eyes, tear-stained, trembling fingers, yellow cab, white airport.

Lovino loves colour. He feels in colour. He cannot describe with words, so now, he feels in the shaky pale blue of a melting iceberg. Trolley for the luggage. Tip for the taxi man. _Grazie_, _ciao_. Lovino is not a traveller. He never has been. It terrifies him. He does not like the flashes of light, the airplane turbulence, the strange foods, sounds, smells, people. It makes him feel desperately alone.

But then, Lovino's loneliness is something deeper. Company cannot satiate it. He knows nothing of art, but only colour. Antonio's eyes are the purest shade of green he's ever had the fortune to study.

He's early. He knows he is. Luggage at the check-in. Security personnel feeling him up – how awkward, how embarrassing. Just his carry-on bag with his book, his documents, a map of Paris. Starbucks coffee, burnt tongue.

Lovino's excitement has flown off the edge of joy, and has plunged into the black buzzing chaos of panic. Has another coffee. Burns his tongue again. Will Antonio's eyes be the same colour as he remembers?

Red is for tomatoes and a deep blush. Green is for happiness and autumn.

* * *

Antonio's shoes are from Scotland. His jacket is Swiss. His belt is from Brazil. His sunglasses were bought in a junkyard sale in California. The small scar on his hand is from being bitten by a German Shepherd in Austria. His t-shirt has an Om symbol, bought from a fun bargain in India. The beaded wallet is Peruvian.

Antonio has seen most of the world, or so he likes to think. He's been to France many times. He's never quite liked it. _"All passengers travelling by Air France flight 365 are requested to arrive at Gate Eighteen for departure, thank you." _Antonio is wired. Too many coffees. Too little food. Airport food is terrible, anyway. He's tasted all sorts. All of it is the same. Sterile, emotionless, never savoured. Just something hastily thrown into the mouth to keep oneself occupied. That's not how anyone should eat. Lovino understands that.

He's been reading reviews of the restaurant Lovino has been working at. Even though he's not in the spotlight anymore, people still talk about him. Good things. About his fantastic, artistic, gorgeous food. Antonio's not surprised in the slightest.

Fingers clasped around the guitar case. Shaky, unsteady walk. Gate Eighteen. Antonio is going to stop running. At Gate Eighteen, he is going to arrive.

* * *

"Sir, would you like something to drink?"

Lovino's head jerks up from where it's been leaning on the glass, and his eyes slide over to the air hostess. She is pretty, he notices. Dark hair tied in a bun, navy blue uniform, food cart, and an expectant expression.

He opens his mouth, stares at the cart for a long moment, and then, slowly, says, "Do you have…um, tomato juice?"

She seems a little startled at the question, because most people don't ask for that in the middle of the night in a stuffy airplane flying thirty-five thousand feet in the air. "Sorry, no. Only orange and apple."

"Just water is fine." His mouth feels dry, anyway. The water is cool, and it sends a shiver right into Lovino's stomach. He feels sick with nerves. He knows he should be happy. No, he _is _happy. But the water tastes like ultra violet radiation and airplane deadness. The only water Lovino can really remember right now is the Seine and the seas at Normandy.

* * *

It's autumn again. Antonio sits in his Economy class seat – it's sandwiched between the window and the aisle, the worst kind of place – trying to fall asleep but failing desperately. They've served drinks on the flight, and Antonio thinks he's had one too many. Or maybe that faraway, light-headed feeling is from exhaustion. He hasn't slept in days. He can't seem to.

He puts his head back against the seat, tilting it upwards slightly and closing his eyes. His mind is in the exosphere, far beyond the thirty thousand something feet of the aircraft. This has never happened before. Antonio's been washed out and exhausted, but _this _feeling…this kind of white slate blankness…One more experience to add to his vast storehouse of them.

It's not a bad feeling, Antonio notes absently.

Vague, but ice-cold-clear, somehow.

Aircraft rumble. Glasses clinking. Massive yawn of a night sky. Darker-than-midnight blue, starless, cloudless, but heaving and full, warm despite the autumn chill.

* * *

No contact for a whole year. Even though they _could _have spoken, hadn't tried. There's Antonio's blog, completely untouched since the last time Lovino had looked at it. But somehow it felt wrong to break the silence. They had to be able to do this alone.

And they have.

Well, Lovino has.

And he's sure Antonio has as well. Antonio's tough, that way.

The year has changed many, many things, but the same love from two weeks in France has only intensified. That must mean it's real. Hell, it's _still _the most real thing in Lovino's life. And that's saying something, because these days, Lovino's completely authentic.

* * *

"Francis! Gilbert!"

"Toni!" they yell as they hug him. "How are you?"

"Nervous!" he laughs.

"Let's get some food," Gilbert says, and it's the perfect response to any situation.

They stop at a bakery and eat and laugh and talk about the year they've had because it's been very eventful for everybody. Antonio's changed the most. He seems so much more rested. He _feels _calmer these days, too. Gilbert and Madeline have _finally _decided on a wedding date, it's in spring and it's in Paris but that doesn't scare Antonio any more. They've had to wait an extra year for some long-winded financial and legal reasons but it's all sorted now, and Gilbert's happy and Francis is somewhat happy – but he's always only _somewhat _happy, so that's normal for him – and Antonio is excited and nervous and there's a part of him that wonders if Lovi will even show up.

"Of course he will," Francis mutters simply, sipping water. "He's been sticking to his part of the bargain brilliantly. In fact, the little brat has become a competitor."

"But I thought you said he works at an Italian restaurant in Rome. You _own _a French restaurant in Pairs. How does that make you two competitors?" asks Gilbert.

"Oh, _cher_," Francis sighs as though Gilbert is a little slow and the answer should be obvious. "Because any decent chef anywhere in the _world _is competition for me. I'm just really competitive."

"Or insecure," Gilbert mutters.

"You shut your face," Francis snaps and Antonio starts laughing.

Gilbert lends him his car again.

Antonio has never been _this _happy to see car keys in his life before.

* * *

"Don't I remember you?" Jeanne asks with a smile as she looks at Lovino. "Ah, wait, you're Antonio's friend." She says 'friend' so delicately, like she knows more than she's letting on. She probably does. Lovino and Antonio hadn't exactly been _quiet _during their nights spent here.

Lovino blanches for a second and then blushes. "Yeah…Is he…here?"

Jeanne smiles again, and it's a little bit sneaky. "I'm sorry, no."

He narrows his eyes. "Really?" His heart is pounding so hard it's almost hurting his ribcage (or is he just imagining that?).

"Really. He's not in this _hotel_," she says so carefully.

Lovino just stares at her. "He's not in this hotel," he repeats.

So Jeanne grins, walks over from the reception desk and pulls back the curtains. It's cold and windy and grey and the sea is sharp, choppy and a little skittish, but Lovino takes a too-quick inhale as he sees a silhouette walking in the sand.

* * *

"ANTONIO! ANTONIO! ANTONIO!"

A figure collides with him so heavily that they both crash into the sand face-first. But suddenly Lovino's turned him onto his back and his kissing his face and his neck and his arms and basically every unclothed part of his body, never mind the sand that's getting everywhere and the sea salt and everything and Antonio's kissing back between moans of, "Lovi! Lovi!" and they're hugging and crying and somewhere above them, very much above them, two halves of a broken piece of the sky have reunited with a massive thunderclap and a bolt of lightning.

It's raining and cold, the sea is fierce and unkind.

But it's autumn again. The transition, the fall, the season before the lonely winter, the time of the year when everything seems to happen.

It's autumn again, but it feels like spring.

* * *

**A/N: That's right, 10k+ words in one sitting. You're welcome. I started at 11.00 AM and it's 6.30 PM now.**

_**THIS IS NOT THE END.**_

_**THERE IS AN EPILOGUE COMING UP.**_

**Okay, now as promised, here's the playlist:**

_**Shoulder to Shoulder Around the Fire – Rogue Valley**_

_**The Wolves and the Ravens – Rogue Valley**_

_**Step Out – Jos**__**é Gonzalez**_

_**Stay Alive - **__**Jos**__**é Gonzalez **_

_**Don't Let It Pass – Junip **_

**Those, and basically any other song from the movie **_**The Secret Life of Walter Mitty**_**, which you should also watch. Apart from the fact that it is awesome and I love it, that movie sort of inspired the premise of this fic. **

**Thanks for reading! Please review! :D **


	7. Epilogue

**A/N: So much for my hiatus after this fic. I already have another Spamano idea. **_**Seriously, somebody stop me, I don't have the time for this nonsense. **_**We'll see. It's not like I have a social life or anything, so maybe I can manage. We'll see. **

**Anyway, this is the epilogue! It's really short. I'm just tying up some loose ends. **

* * *

_Today. Now._

* * *

"Lovi, I'm home!"

There's a rustle of paper and a loud crash, making Lovino jump from where he's sitting on the bed and scamper to the door. "Antonio, what the hell was – that," he finishes, the last word falling like a marble on the floor. He blinks at the mess.

Two paper bags full of tomatoes and strawberries and sauces and grain and bread and all sorts of other rubbish have scattered all over the floor, Antonio standing in the middle of the carnage with a sheepish smile, cutely scratching the back of his head. "Oops. They just slipped from my hands."

Lovino raises an eyebrow. "I asked you to get _shredded chicken_. That's _one thing_."

"_Si_, well," Antonio begins, bending to pick up everything covering the floor. He looks at a particularly badly dented can of sweetened pineapples as he says, "I got distracted and forgot."

"So you just cleaned out the whole store in the hopes that you may have picked up the right thing."

"Pretty much!" he laughs, "And look!" He pushes past the bread and cheese and white wine – oh for the love of god, Antonio – and picks up a sealed plastic bag. "What do the French say? _Et voilà_!" It's shredded chicken all right, although it's been crushed until it looks like chicken paste. Lovino takes it from him wordlessly, blankly studying the label. "Well?" Antonio presses, like he's expecting a reward. Lovino is vaguely reminded of cats. They too drop dead things at the door very proudly.

"It's fine," Lovino mutters, side-stepping the mess as he goes to the kitchen. "Clean that up. Lunch should be ready soon."

"You're welcome!" Antonio quips coolly, getting on his knees to pick up the mess again.

Lovino smiles and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks."

Antonio's voice is a little muffled because they're in different rooms, but Lovino can still hear him. Lovino's cutting open the plastic bag as Antonio calls to him, saying, "By the way, I just got a text from Arthur. Not even five minutes ago."

"Really? Saying what?"

"Apparently, Francis _finally _agreed to go on a proper date with him."

"Oh, fucking finally. I'm so sick of them constantly side-stepping each other at work. I mean, whatever floats your boat, Francis, but _I need to work with you_, and it's freaking irritating. It's been how many years since they've known each other?"

"Basically since they were toddlers. But you know Francis, Lovi. He has…problems. He doesn't trust easy. This is a big thing for him."

"I guess," Lovino concedes, stirring the soup. It's gone cold now. Behind him, Antonio enters the kitchen with his arms laden, dropping things onto the counter with loud clanks and clatters. "Careful, you'll break something," Lovino warns without looking up.

"Nah, it's done. Ooh, I got some white wine, too."

"I noticed."

"I wasn't sure what brand you use for cooking, though. I just got whatever."

Lovino glances towards the bottle in Antonio's arms for a moment. "No, that's a dessert wine." Lovino turns to the soup again, sprinkling salt into it. "Feli's considering a line of dessert wines, actually. And Grandpa invited us to a tasting next month in Bordeaux."

"Do you want to go?" Antonio asks as he deposits the groceries in their correct places.

Lovino makes a face and shrugs. "I've never liked tastings, you know that."

"They make me tipsy!" Antonio giggles. "They're sort of fun, aren't they?"

"You're not supposed to _drink _all of that wine."

Antonio doesn't respond, he's too busy laughing to himself.

"Anyway, we won't even be in town. Remember? Brazil? Carnival?"

"Oh, yes!" And suddenly, Antonio's snapped back to attention, running out of the kitchen to get the map and documents he'd left strewn all over the bed. When he returns, he's placed everything on the dining table, along with a notebook and a pen. Lovino turns briefly. He really enjoys watching Antonio plan his little adventures. He gets this look on his face, like he's trying to decipher a code. It's really attractive.

"I still think going during Carnival is a bad idea," Lovino mutters despite his tiny grin.

"I've already booked tickets."

"Uh-oh."

"Besides, Lovi, you _have _to see the Carnival at least once in your life. I mean, that ought to be on everyone's bucket-list."

"But it'll be crowded."

"But it's _Carnival_!" Antonio argues, as though this sums up everything. And in Antonio's mind, it probably does. Perhaps he's right. Lovino's not seen the Carnival, and he's very curious about it. They've been on several of these trips together. Francis doesn't mind as long as it doesn't interfere with work for too long.

Francis is _not _his boss, no thank you. Lovino is in charge of the Italian menu, something Francis had been looking to install for a while, anyway. The two of them work together. Antonio is the musician there.

In a way, Francis's restaurant means something to everyone. It's where Arthur and Francis live, breathe, and fall in love. It's where Antonio had asked Lovino about going to Normandy – and now they work there. It's where Madeline and Gilbert got married. It's a special place.

Francis had also helped in other ways, of course. He helped them find this apartment. And now he's helping Lovino learn French.

"Lovi? What are you thinking about?"

"Just daydreaming," Lovino replies. "I was thinking about Normandy earlier."

"What? Really? Me too! That's actually why I got distracted in the market."

"Okay, then you're excused."

Antonio laughs as he gets up, and Lovino feels arms snake around his waist.

"Antonio, I'm cooking."

"Mmh, I know," he says, his breath tickling Lovino's ear.

"Sit down, go away, the soup will burn."

"We can order pizza," Antonio says with an evil grin. Lovino narrows his eyes. Antonio knows how much those four words irritate him. Why order shop pizza when Lovino can just make it? Gourmet, too.

"Why don't you do something productive and plan the Brazil holiday?"

"There's not much left to plan, Lovi! I mean, you're talking to a master holiday planner!"

"Okay, then go choose a design for the wedding invitation cards."

Antonio steps back and looks a little awkward. His face flushes. "I thought you already did that."

"Nope." This is the best way to get Antonio to back off. He's so comically nervous about the wedding. Lovino knows Antonio's thinking, and loves manipulating it. In Antonio's mind, everything has to be perfect. So he's basically given up choosing anything – card designs, suit designs, themes – because he's scared he might mess up. After all, everyone knows that between the both of them, Lovino has a better head for these things.

"Looooovi!"

"At least shortlist something."

"But what if you don't like it?"

"Then the world will end."

"Lovi."

Lovino snickers. "Will you relax? If I don't like it, I'll tell you. And if you don't like something, you tell me. It ought to work both ways."

There's a long, loud sigh.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Lovino asks.

"Okay. I'll pick something."

"Great, I'll call the media."

"Hilarious."

"Thank you."

Lovino laughs to himself as Antonio walks out of the kitchen, muttering in Spanish as he does.

Lovino likes rewinding. He likes going back to moments. Moments of decision, moments that have shaped their lives. And where should Lovino begin? Because agreeing to go to Normandy with Antonio changed their lives. But maybe it started before that. Maybe it was just fundamentally who they were. Who they had been. That's why things worked out they way they did.

He turns the stove off and stares into the soup as though it could give him answers.

But really, he doesn't mind the questions. Lovino and Antonio have got this far on faith, trust and patience.

"Antonio, on second thought, wait. Soup's ready. Let's eat first."

There's a thump of footsteps, and Antonio excitedly calls, "Oh thank goodness. I'm starving and these wedding card designs are making me dizzy."

Lovino rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

He doesn't believe in fate, destiny, magic. But sometimes he feels like Normandy just had to happen. It wasn't written somewhere, but maybe it was the only possible outcome considering all the variables. Because really, it's changed both of them. In the best of ways.

* * *

**A/N: I am so bad at writing endings. :'D**

**Thank you all so much for sticking with this strange little story. It was all a massive experiment for me. Not just the writing style, but also the content. I've really appreciated all your reviews/follows/favourites. *Hugs***

**Thanks for reading :D Please review. **

**AND I MIGHT HAVE ANOTHER SPAMANO IN THE WORKS, SO YEAH. **

**(Why, oh why must plot bunnies hit me?)**


	8. Extra Chapter (FrUK)

**A/N: **_**So much for my hiatus. **_**So I was sitting in the train, revising stuff for my world history exam, and this idea struck me. I'd wanted to write the FrUK side to this fic anyway, but now I knew just what to say. **

**If you're not into FrUK and don't want to read a full chapter on it, that's perfectly fine. This doesn't have any impact on the Spamano plot, except for tying in with it here and there. But if you choose not to read it, you won't be missing out on anything, Spamano-wise. I'm writing this more to satisfy my own FrUK needs anyway xD But if you do want to stick with this, then yay! *Hugs* **

**Here are some little notes- **

**This is just an additional FrUK chapter. It takes place immediately after **_**Antonio and Lovino separate**__**. **_**So the timeline is still **_**Three Years Ago**_**, and it will bridge the narrative gap between Francis and Arthur's ambiguous and complicated relationship in chapter two, to the epilogue when Francis finally agrees to go on a date with Arthur.**

**All characters are **_**French by nationality **_**unless otherwise stated. **

**There will be some OCs, but they are unimportant. **

**Also, I guess this is sort of irrelevant, but I'd always had it in my head that for this fic, Gilbert works in finance, although I could never just pick an actual career for him. **

**Alfred and Madeline are **_**not **_**related to each other in this fic. Remember, guys, Madeline is French by nationality for the sake of this story. **

**Marie – a human name for Monaco**

**Finally, I've used Google Translate. I'm not French, and Google Translate is evil, so there might be mistakes.**

* * *

The scene is like one of those old romance novels sitting on Francis's nightstand. He's always felt that. He's never told this to Arthur, though. Francis would just get a funny look and a dry remark if he did. But he's always really liked the _feel _of it. Standing in a dark, deserted little rain-swept alley behind the restaurant, one hand tightening the straps on his coat, the other patting the pockets for a cigarette.

Then there's the tell-tale sound. The _shhhk_ and the _whrr _of a small flame, as Arthur lights up beside him. Francis likes the man's silhouette in the lamplight. He looks like one of those private detectives in the old movies, sans the hat. Arthur's hands are still cupped around his cigarette, a little yellow glow to his palms. He finally lowers them, pocketing the lighter as he does.

"Cold night."

"Long winter ahead," Francis agrees, finally taking out his own cigarette. "That's what I was telling Antonio yesterday."

"He left for Spain this morning, you said?"

Neither of them is looking at each other, but that's normal. It's very, very late at night. The restaurant is closed. But they usually stand here and smoke and chat, sometimes kissing and touching. There's such a thrill to it, _touching _in a public place. Arthur's ever so prudish but on nights like these, something comes over him and his motions are aggressive and dominant and confident.

Francis sighs. "Light me up?" The cigarette in between his teeth makes the words seem muffled, but Arthur whips out the lighter, approaches Francis and ignites the tobacco-rolled end. He truly loves it when Arthur lights his cigarettes for him. There's just something about the moment. About seeing Arthur's green eyes and the flame dancing between them.

"What's with him and this Lovino guy?" Arthur asks, openly curious as he stands beside Francis, their shoulders not touching.

"Love, that's what. It's a very good story, almost reads like fiction. Lovers separated by their inhibitions. The promise of return. Staying strong, being brave, all that prettiness."

"Wow."

"Yeah…So Antonio's gone back to Spain to get over his…travel addiction…thing."

"Wow."

"Hmm."

"What? Don't leave the story half-finished. And Lovino?"

"Oh, that's another thing altogether. Lovino Vargas? Grandson of the wine mogul?"

"Shut up, you're joking."

"Am not."

"We're such gossips," Arthur laughs, the sound making an amused little smile play on Francis's lips.

"Indeed. Anyway, little Lovino…well, he's actually a bit of a chef, you know? He wants to start his own restaurant. He's gone back to Italy to leave the suffocating job he's stuck in."

"Oh, I can imagine. Million euro bank account. I can barely breathe."

Francis laughs openly now. "Come now, Arthur. It's all very romantic, no?"

Arthur just shrugs, completely non-committal. "I guess. But they've only known each other two weeks. That's not a long time, Francis. What if they go their separate ways and then realise they don't love each other after all?"

"Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?"

"I have. But all those stories end in happily ever afters and I've only ever seen them in fairytales."

"Not a romantic bone in your body, I see," Francis teases, nudging the other man gently.

"Oh god, no. I'm just a boring old realist." Arthur sounds exhausted. "So anyway, they're in different countries and they're…getting over their inhibitions?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"And then they'll reunite one year from now to the day in Normandy. On the beach."

"And they all lived happily ever after," Arthur quips, although Francis can't shake off the feeling that there's something Arthur isn't saying. That's always the case with them, isn't it? There's always something somebody's keeping to themselves. Francis doesn't pry. He's too much of a coward.

"It's so romantic," Francis murmurs, more to himself than to Arthur. "Antonio deserves to be happy. I'm glad for him."

"Mm," Arthur says, and then falls silent.

There is so much to be said. There's always so much to be said. The silences between them can fill empty conversations, because everything they don't say has so much goddamn substance.

"Stay with me tonight?" Francis asks after an extended pause.

Arthur holds the cigarette between two fingers and blows out a long gust of smoke. Francis tries to read his face but the lighting is too poor. Arthur drops the still perfectly usable cigarette on the pavement and crushes it underfoot.

"Why did you do that?" Francis asks mildly.

"I'll stay with you tonight," Arthur replies. All at once, they've had two different conversations and spoken about absolutely nothing.

* * *

Francis especially loves how sunlight fills up his apartment every morning. It's beautiful. The windows are angled just right, so the sun's never blinding, but the rays are always warm and golden, the sort of thing they write songs about. Francis hums to himself as he breaks eggs into a bowl, fully dressed, with his hair a little damp from the shower.

Arthur emerges right about then, still in only his boxers.

No, he's wearing a pair of Francis's boxers, actually. The ones that had been kicked halfway across the room last night. Arthur's always so possessive and hungry, almost as though if he doesn't bed Francis _now _and _like this _and touch him _there_, he'll never have another chance to. It's almost as though Arthur thinks that each time they sleep together will be their last, and he's trying to hold Francis like Francis might just disappear in his entirety.

"Morning," Francis chirps lightly, whisking together the eggs and the flour and the sugar. "Did you sleep well?"

"What sleep?" Arthur mumbles gruffly before rubbing his eyes and stumbling to the bathroom. He's never been very good at dealing with mornings. It's so endearing.

When he returns a few minutes later, he's stolen one of Francis's t-shirts, too. Francis has very few actual t-shirts, ones he usually uses to sleep in, and this one is sky blue and has the words _Kiss the Cook _printed on it. It's funny because Arthur's not a chef, and when he attempts to make something, it's not called 'cooking' but 'burning'.

"Morning," Francis tries again, a small smile on his face as he backs Arthur.

"Morning," Arthur responds automatically, and Francis can hear him pottering around at the other counter, trying to fix himself his cup of tea. Francis always keeps Arthur's special tea bags in a jar in the overhead cabinet, and Arthur knows that. On the few times when Francis had forgotten to restock it, Arthur had complained bitterly. _I mean, I basically live here. It's the least you can bloody do. Mon cher, a cup of coffee instead won't kill you. Shut up, Francis. The only drink one ought to have the mornings is tea. _

"I'm making crepes," Francis tells him. "Do you want yours with cream or honey or chocolate?"

Arthur just shrugs. "Chocolate, I guess. You can never go wrong with that, can you?"

"All right. I'll make some chocolate sauce, too."

"Don't you believe in store-bought chocolate sauce? It's much easier."

"It's a crime against humanity," Francis responds simply. "There's some cooking chocolate in the fridge. Could you hand it to me?"

These domestic situations are the worst part. The sex is easy. They both know each other's bodies so beautifully that it requires almost no thought. Dinner rush is actually fun, because Arthur always sits at the table outside, where Francis had carved the word _Arthur_. He'll help out when he wants to and that sometimes leads to chaotic little misadventures that make everyone laugh. Chatting at the back of the restaurant as they smoke is easier still, because it's so painfully inane.

But the domesticities.

They're terrifying.

The morning after holds some sort of obligation, and that's what Francis has a problem with. Arthur never demands anything, but one day, he will. What's Francis going to do then?

Arthur hands him the chocolate wordlessly, but when their hands brush, he takes Francis's palm in his, before slowly pulling Francis closer, holding him by the shirt and bringing him down to Arthur's level. There's such a heavy look in those green eyes when he kisses Francis. It feels slow and soft and tired. His kiss is like a teardrop. Or maybe it's a substitute for one.

When Arthur pulls away, the look is still there. Francis turns his head. He can't meet Arthur's gaze. "What was that for?"

"I felt like it," Arthur replies simply.

"Well, try not to."

"Hmm?"

Francis stares into the pale yellow crepe batter. "Don't kiss me like that. Please. I – I don't like it."

"You say that every time I kiss you, but you always kiss back." Francis doesn't like the tone Arthur's using. As though he's trying not to feel anything, but is failing desperately. Arthur sounds exhausted. He always does.

"Why do you keep kissing me?" Francis wonders softly. "Why do you always kiss me?"

Arthur sighs. "Truthfully?"

_No._

"_L'amour_," he says without waiting for Francis to reply. Arthur is looking at him so plainly, like a lamb lying bare for execution. His face is grey but open, not a trace of deceit in his eyes.

Francis sets the whisk down, physically taking a step away from Arthur. "_Cher_…You…you don't mean that."

"I do. _L'amour. Tu es ma raison de vivre_."

Francis _hates _it when Arthur speaks French. It makes everything worse. Arthur was born in France and grew up here. It's not like he doesn't know the language. He's just so much more comfortable in English, because that's what his parents taught him to speak. So when Arthur puts in the effort and makes his tongue wrap around French words, Francis wants to hold him and never let go.

"You don't mean that," Francis reiterates. He takes a shaking breath. _I am not your reason to live. You don't mean that. I – I won't let you mean that._

"_Je t'aime_."

"Arthur, stop it. Stop it." Francis has whipped around to look him in the eye. "I'm serious."

Arthur doesn't look the slightest bit perturbed, although his face is now more drawn, his skin seems unhealthy and discoloured. "Sorry," he replies simply. "I don't know what came over me."

Francis huffs quietly, mostly to bring down his heartbeat and pretend that what just happened meant absolutely nothing. Between them, most things mean absolutely nothing. (Don't they?)

"Actually," Arthur says, the usual snap back in his voice, "Don't make any crepes for me. I can't really stay."

_No. _

"What do you mean?" Francis asks, his tone filled with fake lightness.

_Don't make this into a big deal._

"I have work." Arthur is in Francis's room now, rummaging around for his clothes from last night.

"But it's a Sunday!" Francis calls as Arthur shuts the bedroom door.

Two minutes later, the door opens and Arthur is haphazardly dressed. There's no way he can go to the office looking like that, in last night's crumpled clothes. "True, it's a Sunday, but you know how crazy the publishing business is. Editing never stops!" Arthur's laugh is short, high and unnatural.

Francis turns to stare at him as Arthur dashes about the living room, grabbing one shoe from underneath the couch and a sock from the rug. "Arthur," Francis declares quietly, heart pumping, "Don't be like that. Come on, stay for breakfast."

"I'd love to, Francis, you know that," Arthur responds without looking at him. He's tying his shoelaces. "But I just had the fifth draft of a manuscript come in last night and the writer's someone famous, so I don't want to keep her waiting."

"She can wait until you're done with breakfast," Francis simply defends.

"Don't worry, old chap. I'll pick up something on the way." And Arthur has grabbed his wallet and house keys from the dining table. "See you later!"

Before even Francis can move to stop him, Arthur has already bolted out of the apartment and slammed the door shut.

Francis doesn't move. Not for a whole minute. But then he slowly makes for the dining table, pulls a chair back and sits down. They won't speak of this tonight when Arthur comes to the restaurant. They never speak about things like this. Francis's forehead falls against the table and he closes his eyes.

Arthur doesn't love him. Arthur wouldn't do something that selfish. They've known each other since they were children, so Arthur knows…he knows. He knows perfectly well that Francis _can't _love him. That Francis isn't even going to try.

Arthur wouldn't let Francis carry the guilt of breaking his heart. Arthur's not that selfish.

…So, no. They won't speak of this tonight.

They'll simply pretend it never happened.

Francis's eyes are stinging. He lifts his head and wipes the small tears away. He's not going to cry about love. He's never going to cry about love again.

* * *

Francis honestly hates it when someone sits at Arthur's table. It seems so wrong. But obviously, when Arthur isn't around, the table is free for other customers. This afternoon, it's a couple of businessmen. They're sitting outside because it's warm. The weather seems schizophrenic these days, either bitterly cold and rainy, or warm, almost like spring. The leaves still fall, though. It is, after all, autumn.

Autumn has an emotion attached to it. Francis has always thought that. A sort of nagging melancholy.

He's always a little bit melancholy, though. He's become used to it.

It's a slow day at the restaurant. Arthur usually spends his Sunday lunches here. Everything Arthur orders is on the house, no matter how expensive it actually is. All of Francis's employees have firm orders to not charge him, to give him whatever he fancies, even if it may not be on the menu. Arthur, however, never makes life difficult. He orders relatively cheap things and never asks for anything that the restaurant doesn't offer.

And whenever Francis is bored, he can always saunter up to his (best friend) (soulmate), snatch his book away from under his nose, and strike up a conversation. One full of wit and sarcasm, dry humour, insults and eventually, laughter. Francis loves bantering with Arthur. It's so much fun. It's so easy.

But Arthur isn't here today.

Not that Francis is surprised.

S-O-U-L-M-A-T-E.

Soulmate.

Not just a lover. But someone whose _soul _is one with yours. Someone whose very _being _craves you. Not just a lover. That's physical, emotional. The word 'soulmate' implies a bond that is almost holy. Things get complicated when the word 'soul' is used.

Arthur is Francis's soulmate. He knows that. They both do. But Francis cannot be the man's lover. That's out of the question. Arthur understands that, right?

"Excuse me?"

Francis blinks and turns to the waiter who just approached him. "Yes, Rémy?"

Rémy is nervously playing with the cuffs of his white shirt. "There's a customer who wants to have a word with the manager. He…he's sitting at Mr. Kirkland's table. And I believe it's actually _about _Mr. Kirkland's table."

Francis frowns. "What?"

Under his level stare, Rémy just shrugs. "They seemed upset."

It takes a few swift steps and Francis steps out of the indoors section. Damp grass crunches underfoot as he walks up to Arthur's table. The two businessmen have mild looks of irritation and are discussing something in hushed tones. When Francis walks up to them, plasters his best _May I Help You _smile and gracefully says, "Good afternoon, my name is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm the owner and manager. What can I do for you?"

One of the businessmen directs his grimace on Francis and coolly lifts one corner of the placemat. "What is this?"

On the polished wood under the placemat is the haphazardly scratched-out name.

_A-R-T-H-U-R_

"It appears to be a carving in the wood," Francis replies simply.

"This is a Michelin Star restaurant. Why on _earth _are people defacing property?"

For a moment, Francis isn't sure how to reply. _Francis, what the bloody hell are you doing? This is a Michelin Star restaurant, you can't just carve my name out on a table! Mon cher, you always sit here, so this is YOUR table. I just want everyone to know that. Dammit, Francis, you're such an idiot. _

"I – I'm sorry, I don't understand the problem."

The customer rolls his eyes like Francis is a bit slow. "I don't want to eat at a restaurant that doesn't care about what its _tables _look like. I mean, if the tables are such a mess, I shudder to think what the kitchen would be like."

"Would you like another table?" Francis just asks, because he's not in the mood for an argument or an impossible customer. It's not even like Arthur's name is causing the man great personal harm. Hell, the carving had been covered with a placemat up until the very moment the customer lifted it.

"Yes, yes _please_." He says the word 'please' as though it's an obscenity.

"All right. Not a problem, sir." Francis signals for Rémy, who comes rushing up to them. "Rémy, would you please show these gentlemen to another table of their choice?"

"Thank you," the customer says darkly. "Although you would do well to have this table replaced. It's clearly damaged."

"We'll look into it," Francis says brightly, plastering on a smile that would rival Antonio's. "My deepest apologies for any inconvenience caused."

The two businessmen simply grumble away before standing up and letting Rémy direct them to another table.

Francis just watches them go.

Then he looks at the carving on the table, running his thumb over the letters. He'd used a fork with a bent tine to write Arthur's name into the wood.

Francis is fond of this table. So is Arthur.

He can't just replace it.

He won't.

* * *

"You have a problem, that's all I can say."

Alfred is sprawled out on Arthur's couch, gluping down a can of Coke between bites of hamburger and fries. Arthur's just sitting quietly beside him, freshly showered and cold. He's wrapped up in layers. Two sweaters and a shawl. Winter clothes are a very good substitute for a warm hug.

"I know, I know."

"I mean," Alfred goes on as though Arthur hasn't said anything, "You love the guy."

"Mmh."

"You sleep with the guy – a lot. You kiss him – also a lot. He doesn't charge you at all for eating at his restaurant – one of the finest restaurants in this city, might I add –"

"I get the picture, Alfred."

"– But he still treats you like dirt. And you're…strangely okay with this?"

"You haven't got to the best part yet."

Arthur's apartment is dreary. All white and green and grey. It's not half as pretty or as sunny as Francis's place, but it's all he's really got. The one thing in his life that doesn't seem entirely pointless. The job pays the bills. He likes it, but it's okay. Francis is…well, Francis. And Alfred is a lie.

"The best part?" Alfred asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I keep telling him I sleep with you. That we're dating."

There's a silence that follows that statement, and suddenly Alfred explodes into laughter, physically buckling as he places the Coke on the coffee table. "You told him _what_?" he manages through his snickers. "Why the hell would you do that?"

Arthur's face turns pink for a moment and he looks away. Alfred is still laughing. "To make him jealous."

"You're trying to make a Frenchman jealous? Good luck, dude. They _invented the concept _of making people jealous. I mean, look at their _food_. All chocolate and cheese and wine and yet, have you ever seen a fat French person? And the _whole country _always looks like it's dressed up for a big social event. And they're all so nice-looking, too. I mean, seriously. Then there's the whole crap about French lovers being the best. Which is rubbish, okay? Total bull. I've slept with French people, and let me tell you –"

"Let me stop you from completing what seems to be a clearly racist tirade," Arthur interrupts, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Francis sleeps with a lot of people. He _actually _sleeps with them. He doesn't just lie about it, like yours truly."

"Well, he's French," Alfred says as though this explains everything.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Look, just…forget it. Forget I even brought it up."

This seems to trigger a certain seriousness in Alfred, because he leans forward, all traces of humour leaving his face. His gaze his fixed and firm, his blue eyes never allowing Arthur to look away. "No, I want you to see sense. You've been obsessed with Francis since the time I met you. Since we were twenty-one. And it's been eight years. _Eight years_, Arthur. And hell, you've known him much, much longer than you've known me."

"Yes," Arthur says tiredly. "We were neighbours. And best friends. And worst enemies." He waves his hand around. "You get the picture."

"Yeah, I'm seeing a really bad image," Alfred mutters, picking up his Coke can and taking another sip. "Francis uses you for sex. The second you get a little bit emotional or whatever, he backs off. I mean, I'd understand if he was shy. It took me a _long _time to get Kiku to go on even one date with me. Almost a year. But you've known him your whole life, and he keeps shunning all your advances. All your _romantic _advances. But he's not shy, is he? No, you said it yourself. He sleeps around."

"I mean…emotionally, you know?" Arthur defends, although he knows how pathetic he sounds. "It's all meaningless sex."

"Exactly!" Alfred almost shouts in frustration. "That's what it fucking is! Meaningless! You're wasting your time!"

"But –"

"Look, I just –" Alfred stops, puts the Coke down, takes out his glasses and rubs his eyes. "This is a really amazing job opportunity, dude. I mean, it could be huge for you. If Francis loved you back, then I wouldn't say another word. I really wouldn't. You're my buddy. I want you to be happy. But what I'm seeing here is a lonely man in a stuffy apartment, waiting for something that's probably never going to happen. The boss wants _you_. The salary is incredible. It's an offer anyone would jump at without a second's hesitation. I – I don't…" Alfred sighs, falling back into the couch cushions. "I don't want you to let it go for something that might not work out. Because then you'll have missed out on an amazing opportunity, and you'll just be upset because you waited for Francis and he never let you in. See my point?"

Arthur does. He honestly does. Every word coming out of Alfred's mouth right now makes perfect sense, a rarity in itself.

"But it's in London…"

"But it's _a very big deal_!" Alfred looks like he's going to either hit him or tear his own hair out. Or both. "You'll be the editor-in-chief of the _entire _UK department of the publishing house! You _cannot _let this go! Over here, you're just some assistant-editor-whatever-the-fuck. A nowhere job and a nowhere love-life. You're getting the chance to improve at least _one _of those things. You cannot decline!"

Arthur makes a face. If he didn't, he'll have burst into tears. And he can't cry in front of Alfred, it would be too embarrassing.

"Arthur," Alfred says, placing a hand on his thigh. "Arthur, look, listen to me. If Francis loved you back, I wouldn't even be discussing this with you. Then it wouldn't even matter. Then I'd probably yell at you if you were thinking of accepting. I mean, I could never accept a job in London, not when Kiku's here in Paris and we have a wonderful life together. But…but Francis clearly doesn't seem to want you. But these guys at London…they do."

"But Francis is just frightened," Arthur argues. A traitorous tear slips down his face, but he wipes it away.

"Francis has been frightened about loving you back since you first started sleeping with him. How many years ago was that?"

"…I don't know. Six?"

"Six. Six years, Arthur. You can't put your life on hold for someone else's fear. Especially when they're doing absolutely nothing to get over it. I mean, you have the right to be happy too. Don't you forget that."

_But I'll only really be happy with Francis. _

Alfred seems to read his mind. "Who's to say you won't fall in love in London, hmm? You're telling me that the entire city – full of sharp-tongued, tea-drinking English dudes such as yourself – you won't find _one man _you'll hit it off with?"

"I…I don't…I don't know," Arthur finally says. Alfred sighs, stretches out his arms and holds Arthur against him.

"Cry if you want to. I won't laugh. But Artie…listen, promise me you'll think about it? I really hate seeing you like this, stuck in a rut and getting nowhere. You don't have to accept just yet, you still have a week to tell them your final decision. But just…just give this some serious thought. Promise me."

Arthur mumbles something into Alfred's shoulder.

"What's that, buddy?"

"I promise I'll think about it," Arthur whispers, lifting his head. His voice is thick and wet, his nose red.

"Good. That's all I want to hear."

* * *

Something's wrong.

Francis knows that the second he sees Arthur at the restaurant that night.

Something's _really _wrong. Arthur looks like he's been crying. His eyes are red and his face is pale. He seems spacey and distracted, not looking the waiter in the eye. Arthur knows all of Francis's employees and always chats with them. Why, just last month, he was invited to Pierre's bachelor party.

"What's the matter with him?" Pierre asks as he walks away from Arthur's usual table, placing his boss under a firm stare. "He forgot his own order – twice." Pierre waves the notepad in Francis's face. "I doubt he'll even remember what he asked for."

Francis doesn't frown, but he feels his lips twitch downwards. From here, he can watch Arthur forlornly trace lines on a tissue with a butter knife. "The last time he was like this, England got kicked out of FIFA."

"That's a good one, boss," Pierre says with a grin.

"No, really. He was inconsolable. And if this is anything like the last time, I'm concerned." Francis waves distractedly to Pierre. "Listen, get some tea. Earl Grey, if we have any. Let me go talk to him." Does this have anything to do with today morning's…incident? Because Arthur's got to understand the boundaries.

(Francis hates hurting him, though. Oh, Francis just hates hurting him.)

"_Cher_?" Francis asks gently, approaching the table. Arthur looks up, his eyes dazed and elsewhere.

"Oh, hi."

"Hi," Francis says, his voice quiet, soothing. "May I sit down?"

Arthur just gestures. He looks like he might just fall asleep at the table.

When Francis pulls up a chair and seats himself, he slowly reaches out to take Arthur's hand. Arthur doesn't even look at him. He doesn't even react. Francis gives the man's palm a little squeeze. "What's wrong? Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nothing's wrong," Arthur says quickly. But then he just gives Francis this awful defeated look. "Well, okay, I…well…"

"Yes?"

"It's not important."

"You look terrible, Arthur. Are you sure this isn't something you want to talk about?" He tilts his head to the side. "You know, Pierre is getting us some tea. The kind you like."

"Earl Grey with two sugars?" Arthur asks hopefully, his face lifting just for a moment with the slight hint of a smile.

"You know it."

"Heh. Thank you, I guess."

"Now come, what's on your mind?"

"Nothing – I – it's just –" and Arthur halts, sighing before lowering his head to the table. He seems to physically shrink in the chair. "Work pressures."

Francis allows himself a small smile. "That's why I'm my own boss. No-one yelling at me to get any work done." A pause, a small laugh, and then, "You should be a boss too. Don't they promote anyone around there?"

Arthur's head jerks up so suddenly that it had to have caused some sort of muscle pull. His eyes are very wide. His face is, if possible, paler. "You –"

"What?" Francis asks, his jaw slackening as Arthur stands. His movements are so disjointed and sudden that it shakes the table and actually topples the chair over.

"I need to go, I just remembered something."

"Arthur!"

"Sorry." But Arthur has already bolted off, passing Pierre carrying a tray with a teapot without even a glance. Francis just gapes.

"_Merde_." He jumps to his feet and chases after the man.

But he reaches Arthur in time to watch him speed off in a taxi.

"_Merde_," Francis says again, taking his frustration out by kicking the pavement. It's always like this. Whenever Francis is upset, Arthur will baby him about it, putting aside their usual jibing and jeering to make Francis feel better. But whenever there's something wrong with Arthur, the man's walls come shooting up.

* * *

_Francis: What._

_Francis: Was._

_Francis. That._

**Arthur: Like I said, work pressures. I remembered something I had to finish.**

_Francis: And I'm the Queen of England._

**Arthur: Well, I distinctly remember the time you wore a tiara. **

**Arthur: Although, to be fair, you were going for Disney Princess Cinderella.**

**Arthur: You were an ugly Cinderella.**

_Francis: Don't change the subject. What happened to you? What's wrong? _

_Francis: You know you can talk to me, right?_

_Francis: Hello?_

_Francis: HELLO?_

_Francis: Why are you so difficult!? -.-_

_Francis: Does it have something to do with what happened between us this morning?_

_Francis: Arthur?_

**Arthur: It never means anything, does it? This banter between us?**

_Francis: The banter and the insults mean nothing. I cherish you. You know that._

**Arthur: Yes.**

**Arthur: Of course.**

_Francis: Was that sarcasm?_

_Francis: Mon dieu, I can't even tell anymore. I used to be able to read your sarcastic texts so easily._

**Arthur: Never you mind. **

**Arthur: It means nothing, anyway. **

**Arthur: Everything always means nothing.**

_Francis: What is that supposed to mean?_

_Francis: Hello?_

**Arthur: I'm going to bed.**

_Francis: You said you had work._

_Francis: Tell me what's wrong…_

_Francis: …Are you there?_

_Francis: Sleep well._

* * *

When Arthur opens the door next morning, Francis is there with a couple of cream cakes and a six pack of beer. Arthur knows Francis detests beer. The fact that he would drink it anyway, just to keep Arthur company, should have made him feel better. But it just makes him feel guilty instead. It confuses him.

It always has, this strange cat and mouse. Arthur never quite knows where he stands. Because one minute they're kissing and making out and having sex and the next minute, Francis is shunning any kind of physical contact with him. Francis then goes ahead and finds random people to bed, but insists on saying things like, "We're sworn to each other, are we not, _mon cher_?" Even that bloody endearment. Francis uses it with everyone, but when he says it to Arthur, it's like the words are softer and warmer, spoken like they mean something sacred. And of course, Francis hates it when Arthur says sweet things to him, but then Francis also calls him cold and unemotional when Arthur goes on one of his rants or makes a particularly mean remark.

It's so confusing.

What is Arthur supposed to glean from this? Does Francis want him?

No…

No, he doesn't.

"How are things with your boyfriend?" the Frenchman waggles his eyes. "Alfred?"

Doesn't that bother him at all?

"Still cheating on him with me, eh?"

Doesn't it make him the slightest bit _jealous_? Not even a little? Never mind that Arthur hasn't so much as kissed Alfred. In fact, he sees Alfred as some sort of annoying younger brother. But Francis doesn't know that.

(Or does he? Francis is so bloody perceptive about things like this…)

"Things are fine."

Francis has these incredible blue eyes. They're ethereal. They really are. The way they look at him, like they're dissecting his soul and devouring him like Arthur is the finest French wine ever made. They're soft now, full of concern and worry and typical Francis-like affection. "And how about you? How are you, _mon cher_?"

"Everything's bloody perfect, okay?" Arthur mutters before putting some cake into his mouth. He chews and swallows, before saying, "I was just really stressed out yesterday. And exhausted. I haven't been sleeping properly."

"Did you eat dinner at all last night?" the expression in Francis's eyes hasn't left at all.

"Yes."

"Did you?"

"…No. But I ate a good breakfast, so don't worry."

_Why bother worrying about me? _

_You don't care._

_You really don't._

_I love you. _

_I've loved you for a long time._

_But I don't think I'm strong enough to love you anymore._

"You really should take better care of yourself." Francis clicks his tongue and shakes his head, finishing the last of his cake. "I had to throw away a perfectly good pot of Earl Grey last night."

"You don't give a damn about tea."

"No, and neither should you," Francis retorts before his face breaks into a small smirk. "Coffee is the way to go, you know."

"Tea is healthier. You live longer."

"Perhaps, but _why _would you want to live longer if all you're drinking is tea and no coffee, hmm?"

Bantering is easy. It means nothing.

Between them, nothing ever has any goddamn meaning.

And yet, everything does.

It makes Arthur's head spin.

* * *

"_Artie! Sup, dude? What can the hero do for ya? You shouldn't have called in sick today, man. There's so much woooork. Well, I guess there is for me. Lucky you, you're not in design. They're killing us up here."_

"I think I'm going to accept."

"_You – you're going to accept the London job?!"_

"…Yes. I think I will. I'm calling up the boss in a few minutes to tell him."

"_Oh! Oh! Arthur, that's wonderful. I'm so proud of you. I really, really am. Are you feeling okay?"_

"I'm feeling the same as I always feel."

"_What's that?"_

"…Lonely."

"_Aw. Hey, come on. Don't be like that. This is a good thing. You're making the right decision."_

"I know…"

"_Tell you what. I'll come over tonight and we'll play video games. How about it?"_

"Sure. Whatever. I don't feel like going to Francis's restaurant tonight, anyway."

"_Then we'll order pizza or something."_

"Okay."

"_Have you told Francis yet?"_

"…No. Not yet."

"_When will you tell him?"_

"Eventually."

"_Sounds like a good plan."_

"Hah."

* * *

Arthur hasn't shown his face at the restaurant for days. Francis has called and texted and tried to physically drag him there, but Arthur's always saying he's busy with 'work' and 'edits' and 'clients', until Francis is sick of hearing those three little words.

It bothers him, not seeing Arthur around. It bothers him more than he'd like to admit. He's been losing his sleep. Like in the old days. He's never told Arthur, but he suspects Arthur knows.

About the nightmares.

Their faces are still fresh, although he can never focus on them because they become fuzzy. But when he's at this safe distance, he can see them. He can _hear_ them. Shouting. Oh god, he could always hear them shouting. Even when he locked himself in his room and put the pillow over his head, he could still hear them. On and on and on and on.

_YOU AND THAT DAMN SLUT! YOU'RE THE REASON WE'RE IN THIS DEBT! FORGET ME, WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR WIFE, SHE'S JUST SOME SLAVE. FORGET ME. WHAT ABOUT YOUR SON? WHAT ABOUT THE BOY WHO LOOKS UP TO YOU? THE BOY WHO WANTS TO BE YOU ONE DAY? WHAT SORT OF EXAMPLE ARE YOU TO FRANCIS?_

_STUPID BITCH, I TOLD YOU NOT TO ANSWER MY PHONE CALLS. _

_THAT MONEY YOU'RE DRINKING AWAY IS FROM HIS SCHOOL FUND, BERNARD!_

_THIS BEEF IS FUCKING OVERCOOKED! YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT, CAN YOU, COLETTE?_

Arthur, Arthur, they're fighting again. Why are they always fighting, Arthur?

Arthur?! Where are you? Why won't you answer me?

It's like they hate each other…But I remember when they used to love each other…

Does that happen, Arthur? Does love turn into hate?

Arthur? Why won't you answer me?

You always used to.

…

_I'm so sorry, Francis, but I don't think I see this working out. _

But I love you, Marie.

_Yes, but…we're too young. This is moving too fast for me._

We can slow down. We can. We'll go at your pace.

_No, I – I don't think I can do this. I'm so sorry._

…

_I'm so sorry, Francis, but I don't think I see this working out._

But I love you, Roderich.

_No, you don't. You love the idea of me._

What does that even mean?

_It means you're more in love with the fact that we're both up and coming in our respective arts. You're more in love with the music and the food and the feeling of creating something other people love. It means we need to focus on ourselves. _

But…but you're amazing. You're smart. You're kind. You're everything I've ever wanted in a person. Why shouldn't I want to focus on you?

_Because then you'll stop focusing on yourself. And I want you to. I want you to become a great chef. I want you to keep creating. I don't want to take that away from you. And similarly, I want to create art myself._

But can't we be in love and still create art?

_For me, it's either love or music. And the fact is, Francis, my first love will always be music._

…

_I'm so sorry, Francis, but I don't think I see this working out._

No! Jeanne! No! Not you, too! Why?

_Francis –_

Why? No! I love you, I love you! Don't do this to me. Not you, too.

_Francis – _

Whatever I've done wrong, I'm sorry, I'll try harder. I'll do better. I'll –

_Francis! Listen to me! It has nothing to do with you. It's me. You see us getting married, and I just…don't._

…W-why not?

_Because I'm a free spirit. I've always been. Gosh, I – I'm so cruel. I can't believe I'm doing this. Francis, I'm so sorry. Francis, no, please don't cry, darling. Please. _

So, this is it?

…_Yes. I'm so sorry._

You should go.

_Francis…_

You should go now, Jeanne.

…

Arthur. Arthur, they're fighting again. Why are they always fighting?

Arthur, what's the meaning of the word 'whore'?

I asked my teacher and she shouted at me.

Now mommy's calling him a dick.

What's that?

OOOH – wow, I didn't know that's what adults called it. Funny, huh? Grown-ups have their own language.

Arthur…he just walked out.

I don't think he's coming back.

It's been two months. I don't think daddy's coming back.

Mommy hates him. She used to love him, but she hates him.

Does all love turn to hate?

Answer me, Arthur. Why are you so quiet?

…

I don't think I have it in me to love anyone anymore, Arthur.

It's too painful.

It's too painful to watch love fall apart.

Arthur? Are you listening?

Hello?

* * *

The date on the calendar reminds Francis that it's the middle of November, and he hasn't had a proper conversation with Arthur in two weeks. Work. Edits. Clients. Whatever.

It's raining on a Wednesday afternoon when Francis sees a cloaked figure with a soaking black umbrella run up the path leading to the restaurant and enter it. He's shivering and shaking. Francis watches carefully as Arthur closes the umbrella, putting it into a bucket by the door. He hugs himself as his eyes trail around the indoor seating area.

There are only four or five tables occupied. Arthur picks one by the wall. Francis notices how he looks visibly perturbed. This is not his outdoor table. He wants his outdoor table.

Pierre is going for the menu, but Francis stops him. He'll be Arthur's waiter today. Enough is enough. So he saunters over there, plasters on a salesman smile and says, "Good afternoon, sir. Frightful weather outside, isn't it? Are you cold? Should I get you something warm to drink?" He places the menu on the table, ignoring Arthur's wide, startled eyes. "Shall I list the specials?"

"Francis, what the bloody hell are you doing now?"

"I'm your waiter," he says simply. But then the pretence leaves him and he sighs, rolling his eyes before pushing the other chair back. He signals for Pierre to handle the orders instead. And Arthur's giving him this catlike smirk. Like he's saying, _I know you're full of garbage._

The first thing Arthur asks for is tea. Francis says nothing. He's making origami boats out of tissue paper.

"I had to talk to you about something," Arthur says after a moment, and he looks deeply uncomfortable. Not just awkward, but…guilty.

Francis looks up, crumpling the tissue. "What's wrong?"

Arthur takes a deep breath. "A while ago, we briefly spoke about how I ought to get a promotion?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I got one."

"Oh! Arthur, that's magnificent! Congratulations!" But before Francis can get up and give him a hug, Arthur's humourless face makes his smile drop. Arthur's arm is clamped down on Francis's wrist.

"I'm not finished," Arthur says simply.

"Oh. Sorry, go on."

"The job. It's…it's incredible, Francis. They pay is through the roof. The position is very respectable, and the work is exciting."

"That's…lovely," Francis says. He feels like he should be saying something encouraging and positive, but the look in Arthur's eyes is scaring him.

"I think I'll be very happy."

"…So…what's the matter?" Francis asks. His voice has dropped to a hush, like they're talking about the fatal illness of a mutual friend.

Arthur takes a deep breath. He's visibly fighting the urge to break eye-contact. There's a kind of defiance and bravery in the way in which he stares at Francis now. "It's in London."

"What?"

"The job. It's in London."

Francis blinks. "You're going to London?" The words haven't quite sunk in yet. It's like Arthur's trying to communicate in an alien language.

Arthur breaks and lowers his eyes. "Yes. I'll be there for six months. But if I'm happy there, they're saying it'll be a permanent position. So…so I'm guessing I'll be moving there."

"You're going to London?" Francis repeats, and this time his jaw drops. "You're leaving?"

No. No. No.

"Yes."

There are so many things Francis wants to say, but the only coherent word his brain can come up with is _no, no, no, no, no_! There are so many questions. When are you leaving? When did you find out? Where will you stay?

But the only one Francis can actually muster is a broken, "…Why?"

"Why am I leaving?" Arthur repeats, looking at him with actual caution, as though he expects Francis to catch fire and burn the whole restaurant down.

Francis swallows. His eyes are stinging.

"Yes. Why are you leaving?"

Arthur looks away. "There's nothing for me here."

"I'm here."

To his absolute _horror_, Arthur _scoffs_. It is the darkest, most bitter sound Francis has ever heard. It's enough to shatter any semblance of composure Francis was trying to maintain. "_You're_ here?" Arthur spits, and his green eyes are like poison darts. "When? When are you _ever _here? When are we ever –" but Arthur stops, his features becoming just a little bit softer as he looks at Francis's face. "They offered the job to me two months ago," he muttered instead. "I kept throwing them off. I couldn't make up my mind. And now I finally have. I…I'm flying out on Monday. All the arrangements and everything, they've all been made. I…I just couldn't tell you sooner. I just couldn't. I tried, but I didn't know how. But I guess I decided I ought to just bite the bullet, as they say."

"Wh-what do you mean?" Francis stammers. "What do you mean 'when are you ever here'? Where would I go? I've always been here!"

"It doesn't matter," Arthur says quickly.

"No!" Francis shouts, and so what if all his customers stop and glance at him. He lowers his voice, though. "Please, Arthur, if you're keeping any more secrets, now's the time." His voice is acerbic. He's never been this _mad _before.

Arthur looks like he's about to physically recoil. But then his expression darkens and he straightens up. "I'm leaving because I'm sick and tired of whatever the bloody hell we pretend to not have between us. I'm leaving because it's an excellent job, and because I actually have some hope of a future there. I'm leaving because I'm _tired_, Francis, I'm so fucking _tired_ of waiting. Of pretending not to care as we make love and kiss and hold hands and behave as though we're everything a normal couple ought to be. I'm tired of this. Of feeling so much. Of feeling all the time. And of knowing that no matter how long I wait, you'll never be brave enough to love me back."

"That's not true! That's not –"

"Really?" Arthur snaps. "What are we, Francis? What do you want us to be?"

_I want us to be best friends! To be able to hold each other and comfort each other when we need it. To be able to laugh and cry together. To be able to touch each other without either one of us getting so badly hurt every time we do. I want us to be like that! I want us to – I want us to be – _

"What do you want us to be?" Arthur repeats.

_I…I don't – I – _

Arthur's laugh is cold and cruel and angry. "You don't even know, do you?"

And Arthur is gone. Gone into the rain. Pierre arrives with a pot full of Earl Grey, but all he finds is Francis sitting there blankly with tears running down his face.

Arthur's right.

Francis doesn't know what they are to each other, doesn't know what he wants them to be.

All he's aware of right now is the familiar cold numbness he feels when yet another person walks out of his life.

* * *

Francis has a job most people would envy. He makes very good money, has a stellar reputation and barely has to do any work. He can wake up late and potter about the house until lunch rush, which is really when he bothers to go to the restaurant. Even there, all he's doing is overseeing stuff, just making sure that the restaurant is running smoothly. By the time he goes home, it's late afternoon. More time to spend just reading or experimenting with new recipes. He goes back to the restaurant in time for the dinner rush crowd, and to make sure the performers have arrived and are doing their thing. He stays there until after closing time, after which he and Arthur have a smoke. That's his day.

For being known as a great Parisian chef, Francis does very little cooking. He used to, back when he was younger and didn't own his own restaurant. Back when he and Arthur were younger.

But Francis spends the rest of the week working. He doesn't go home, not even once. Arthur hasn't shown his face since that disastrous afternoon. And he's constantly in the kitchen, trying to cook his sorrows away, spends his afternoons trying to distract himself by conversing with the employees, and after the restaurant shuts for the night, Francis swiftly makes a phone call to one of those businesses with questionable service to request a woman – or man, he's not picky – to keep him company. They usually just go to a hotel. Francis doesn't like going home these days.

But he hasn't cried since the day Arthur walked out on him.

Which is good.

He's not going to cry over a broken heart anymore. He's done. He's done with that.

* * *

_Ring_

_Ring_

_Ring _

_Ring_

"_Hello! This is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm unable to answer the phone at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you!"_

Arthur takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He lets the electronic beep on the other end of the line wash over him. He's always been good with words, but now they just completely fail him. Instead, he just presses the 'end call' button and lowers his mobile, blinking as the harsh white airport lights burn into the back of his skull. He's never liked airports much.

_Ring_

_Ring_

_Ring _

_Ring_

"_Hello! This is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm unable to answer the phone at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you!"_

"Francis, I –" Arthur begins. And then he panics, cuts the call, and bends over, burying his head in his knees. It would be a lot easier if they'd just announce his flight. Then he'd have the freedom to leave and not make this call.

_Ring_

_Ring_

_Ring _

_Ring_

"_Hello! This is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm unable to answer the phone at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you!"_

"Francis, I…I'm leaving. I'm at the airport and I just…well, I hated the way we left things, so…well…I guess it's too late now. Um…yeah…t-take care, okay?"

Arthur shakily puts the phone down, his eyes stinging. He's been crying a lot lately. A hell of a lot. It would have been embarrassing if Arthur hadn't stopped giving a damn.

He looks longingly at the departure gate. How on earth can Antonio get addicted to this feeling? This feeling of walking away from everything? How on earth is it possible? How is he going to survive? All his life, it's always been the two of them – Arthur and Francis, Arthur and Francis. No matter what happened. No matter who came and went. Marie, Roderich, Jeanne, it had never mattered. Because they'd always been together. In a way, Francis had been right when he'd said they were sworn to each other.

But what does it matter now?

Arthur leans back against the airport seat and closes his eyes. He's trying to drown out the white noise of his surroundings, but he doesn't know how.

* * *

_The way a crow_

_Shook down on me_

_The dust of snow _

_From a hemlock tree_

_Has given my heart_

_A change of mood_

_And saved some part_

_Of a day I had rued._

-_Dust of Snow by Robert Frost_

* * *

There's something to be said about smoking a cigarette in the snow. Warmth and tobacco coating his tongue, while the rest of his body is freezing cold. It's night time. Francis ignores the pathetic layer of sleet on the pavement, leaning against the dirty wall behind the restaurant and sending little puffs of smoke into the air.

Gilbert's not smoking, though. Madeline would kill him. Secretly, Francis is glad. This late night ritual is his and Arthur's alone. Though he adores Gilbert, it is not something he can stand doing with him.

"I thought he'd be back by now," Gilbert mutters, hugging himself. "It's so weird. He just left? How many months has it even been?"

"He left in late November. It's only January now. You've been in Germany for work for a long time, Gilbert. A lot has happened."

"What can I say? I'm sorry. But they wouldn't let me be. The work load's been crazy."

"That's fine."

"Are you doing okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Francis? Look, I know I'm not sensitive or whatever, but I…I worry, you know? You know you can talk to me, right?"

"_You _want me to talk about my feelings?" Francis actually smiles, raising an eyebrow.

Gilbert's red eyes sparkle in the lamplight. "You never do it yourself," he says simply, shrugging and looking away. "But you're always there for everyone else when they need a shoulder to cry on. So…you know, I'd like to return the favour. Or whatever, if you don't want to, that's fine."

Francis laughs. He's not quite sure why. It's short and empty but definitely amused.

"What?" Gilbert whines.

"Nothing, nothing," Francis waves off, still grinning. He chucks the last of the cigarette into the sleet and watches its small orange light burn out. Francis's smile disappears in quite a similar way. "I'm tired. I think I'll go home now."

"Are you sure?" Gilbert asks, his eyes flashing immediately with concern.

Francis nods, forcing another small smile. "I'm sure. Do you want me to drive you home?"

"Thanks, but I have my car."

"All right. Well, see you."

"Good night."

* * *

London is not like Paris. He's been to London plenty of times, but that's the only worthwhile observation he ever has. It's not like Paris. He's not sure how they're different. It's not something he can just pinpoint. And it's not as simple as language or architecture or anything.

It's the way those two cities feel.

Or rather, the way he feels about them.

Paris will always be home.

Arthur steps out into the balcony. It has finally stopped snowing, although the forecasts say they ought to expect a bit more powder later tonight. He leans against the railing and stares down at the city. It's bitterly, bitterly cold. It always seems to be. Cold and wet. Even the sun seems cooler here.

Arthur blows out smoke and watches as the ash from the end of the cigarette slowly crumbles, little flakes falling to the road like burnt snow.

It's true.

London is not like Paris at all.

* * *

_From you have I been absent in the spring, _

_When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,_

_Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,_

_That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him._

_Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell_

_Of different flowers in odour and in hue_

_Could make me any summer's story tell,_

_Or from their proud lap pluck them from where they grew._

_Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,_

_Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;_

_They were but sweet, but figures of delight_

_Drawn after you, you pattern of all those._

_Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,_

_As with your shadow I with these did play._

_-Sonnet 98: From You Have I Been Absent in the Spring by William Shakespeare_

* * *

They're all mass-ordered tables, it'll be so difficult to get one exactly like this. Francis had gone through so much trouble to get the ones he'd liked. It's going to be difficult to get a similar table. Yesterday there was a bit of drama. Someone had an argument with their wife and in some mad rage, took the steak knife and jammed it into the wood.

Francis had to call the cops to get the man to calm down, but the damage was done.

He studies the deep engraving now. It's a stab wound, all right. The poor table. This is soft wood, It's not like the antique furniture, it's not made to be manhandled. There's no option. He'll have to get it replaced.

The weather is lovely outside as his eyes trail over to where so many people are seated. Sunny and smelling of flowers, the breeze just enough to make the large umbrellas flap slightly but not ruin anyone's hair, the weather warm enough to be pleasant but not uncomfortable. From where he's standing, indoors, he can watch his many customers laugh to themselves and eat and live.

Arthur's table is unoccupied today.

Francis turns back to the one he's inspecting, running his fingers through the deep dent.

Then he looks back to Arthur's table. Where he knows he'd carved the letters _A-R-T-H-U-R _into the wood on a spring afternoon quite similar to this one.

Maybe he'll get that table replaced too.

* * *

"Hey, Francis. You wanna know something awesome?"

April is tourist season, so Francis barely hears what Gilbert has to say before he's called to another table. The customers want to speak to the owner himself about the intricacies of French cuisine. They're American and they're looking and doing a food trail across France. They want to know what to keep an eye out for.

It's another fifteen minutes before Francis rushes back to the table outside in the grass. The stars are very bright tonight, the weather is pleasant and the live band is wonderful. Gilbert and Madeline are still on the first glasses of wine.

"Sorry, it's a busy night," Francis hurriedly says, to which Madeline laughs lightly and Gilbert just waves his hand.

"Forget it, it's all right. But we want to tell you the good news!"

"Oh? Good news?" He raises an eyebrow and plasters on an expectant grin, already working through all the sleazy comments he can make to show his approval of whatever announcement Gilbert and Madeline have. She's looking at Gilbert so lovingly. It's adorable. And Gilbert has this huge smile, practically radiating rainbows.

"We've decided where we want to get married," Madeline says with a small grin, putting her lips to the wine glass and motioning with her eyes towards Gilbert. Francis looks between the two.

"We were thinking," Gilbert said slowly, pausing for effect.

"Yes?" Francis presses.

"About getting married here."

Francis gapes at the two of them openly. "You – you want to get married in my restaurant?"

"Yes!" Madeline chimes. "It's such a special place, Francis. It's like magic over here. And everyone is so friendly, the food is amazing, and _you're _amazing. It just seemed right to us! What do you think? Is this okay with you?"

"What do I think?" Francis repeats, blinking stupidly at Madeline and then Gilbert. "Oh my god, you two. Oh my god. _Yes_! I'm absolutely _honoured_! I don't know how I – oh! Come here!" and he's launched himself on Gilbert, pulling one of his closest friends into a very tight hug. "Thank you, thank you. I'm so happy for you both. Congratulations. I'm so happy!"

So then why is he crying tears of such sadness?

"What about a hug for me?" Madeline calls with a laugh, stretching out her hands and motioning for him. Francis doesn't have the time to wipe his eyes so he just smiles and embraces her.

"You two deserve it. I'm so glad, you don't know how glad I am!"

And Francis really is happy, he really is. They're such good friends of his, they deserve every happiness in the world. But the tears running down his face betray him. Somewhere inside of him, he's screaming with loneliness.

Madeline clues in.

"Francis?" she asks gently when he doesn't let her go or even raise his head. She has such a tender way about her. "Hey, Francis? Are you all right?" One small hand runs through his hair. "Shh, hey, what's the matter?"

"I'm just happy," he responds pathetically, although his voice is muffled and nasally.

Suddenly, there are stronger arms pulling at his shoulders. Gilbert. He almost physically drags him off Madeline, swivels him to look Francis in the eye, and just stares. Gilbert has the ability to stare at people with enormous intensity. Few know this side of him. But Gilbert's red eyes pierce right into Francis like he's got x-ray vision, and Francis can only make out the smallest hint of concern before Gilbert looks away, towards Madeline, and says, "We'll be right back."

"Where are we going?" Francis whimpers as Gilbert drags him off, out of the restaurant and behind it, to the quiet alley where Francis and Arthur often used to smoke.

"You," Gilbert declares like he's answering the question. "You just – goddammit."

He pushes Francis against the brick wall. Gilbert has the firmest grip and Francis doesn't even bother resisting. What's Gilbert going to do? Punch him for touching his fiancé? He didn't mean to hold onto Madeline for such an inappropriately long time…he really didn't mean to…

"You," Gilbert says again, and this time he's inelegantly struggling for words.

"Me," Francis mumbles. His nose is still clogged.

"Why do you do this? Why do you always fucking do this to yourself?"

"Do what?"

Gilbert finally lets him go, only to run one hand through his white hair in sheer frustration. "Isolate yourself! God, Francis, I don't know how to get through to you sometimes! You're such a tightly wrapped up bundle of issues but you don't fucking have to be! There are people around you who care about you. They care about you so much, but you never fucking let them in! Why is that?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Francis genuinely doesn't have a clue.

"What happened back there?" And Gilbert's question is like an accusation. "You were crying. This is about Arthur, isn't it? It always is."

"What's Arthur got to do with –"

"Don't insult my intelligence, okay."

Well, Gilbert probably has more IQ points than Francis and Antonio put together. Nobody's ever denied that.

"Gil –"

"And don't use that irritatingly pacifying tone with me. _Gil, it's nothing, really, you're overreacting_ – as though _I'm _the idiot." Gilbert looks practically deranged. Francis gets the feeling that he knows exactly what he wants to say, but he doesn't quite understand how to say it. "What the fuck is with you? And Antonio? The two of you wear so many masks you'd think we're fucking Venetians."

"What on earth does Venice have to do with anything?"

"You know!" Gilbert cries, throwing his hands up in the air. "Those really nice Venetian masks that Madeline wanted to buy when we went to Italy. God, whatever, it's irrelevant. Why can't you ever just be _honest _for once? Huh? Antonio's always laughing when he wants to cry and you're always…well, you're a hell of a lot more complicated, and frankly, Francis, I don't understand. I just don't. I'm sorry. I'm not as perceptive as you and Toni are, I'm as thick as a brick, okay? But I'm not blind. These last few months, you've been moping around a lot more than you usually do –"

"I don't usually mope around!"

"You do," and this is the first time Gilbert sounds sure of himself. "You do. When you think nobody's looking. And I _know _it has something to do with Arthur. It's always Arthur, one way or another. And now the bastard's just packed up and left without so much as a by-your-leave. I know you're in pain, okay? So just knock off the theatrics because _I don't deal well with that_. I want to help you, Francis, I do. You're like a brother to me. But I don't understand this psychology shit and I don't understand these complicated emotional fuck-ups you and Antonio go through. I'm a one-dimensional, thick-like-a-brick guy and I deal with my emotions directly. So please can you do the same? Just this once? Because if you don't, if you just lock it all up inside like you usually do, I'm going to hate myself for not understanding what you're feeling right now and I'm going to hate myself when you're crying in your room all alone feeling like nobody gives a shit."

Tears slide down the curve of Francis's cheek. He doesn't wipe them away. "I don't know what to say."

Gilbert sighs very loudly. "Just be as direct as possible. Break it down for me. I'm no good with understatement."

"All right." Francis bites the inside of his cheek and then lets his eyes wander down the deserted alley. "Arthur basically left because he's tired of waiting for me. As in, he's tired of waiting for me to love him back."

Gilbert blinks. "But you do love him, don't you?"

"No! I don't! I don't, okay!"

"What the fuck!? All right! Calm down! Jesus!"

"I don't love him," Francis almost snarls. "That would ruin everything, Gilbert! I _can't _love him."

Gilbert rubs his face. "What? Go slow, Francis." His voice is softer, gentler. "I'm a total idiot with these things. Go slow for me."

Francis takes a deep, long breath. "I can't love Arthur back, don't you see? Because if I did, we'd fall apart." From the blank look Gilbert gives him, Francis knows he has to be even more articulate. "Because love always falls apart."

This gains a reaction. Gilbert's eyes go very wide, and his jaw falls. "That is _not _true. I've loved Madeline since we were college kids, and we're still in love. Antonio and Lovino are changing their ways to be worthy of each other. I mean, I'm not saying a relationship is perfect. It's not, it never is. But to just arbitrarily dismiss it as something doomed to fail –"

"No." Francis closes his eyes and leans against the wall. "It's different with you and Maddie. It's different with Toni and Lovino. Things don't work out so perfectly for me. They never have."

"Francis…" Gilbert is looking at him with so much sadness. "Francis, we've all been hurt. I've had plenty of relationships fail, some rather terribly. So has Maddie. Antonio could never keep a relationship going for more than couple of months, you know that. And I don't know about this Lovino guy, but he's all over the news with some scandal or the other, so I'm sure he's not had it easy either. Love's a bitch, okay? It hurts everybody. Badly. But that doesn't mean you just give up."

Francis knows this. He knows this because everything Gilbert is saying is exactly what Francis would tell Antonio when another man walked out on him because of his constant travelling. He knows this because it's something he always tells Arthur when Arthur gets flustered and shy and defensive just before they kiss. Francis knows _all _of this.

He's just a hypocrite. And a coward.

"You know how many times I've had relationships fail?"

"You've had three serious relationships."

"Tens of others fell apart before they could get anywhere near serious. But each time, Gilbert, each time, I'd feel too much, too quickly. It's not…healthy." Francis hugs himself because he's starting to feel really, really vulnerable. "My problem is that every time I start having feelings for a person, they take over me. So when they leave – and they always leave, Gilbert – I'm shattered and lost. I…I can't do it anymore. I thought I was going to die when Jeanne left, but I really will if one day Arthur and I don't work out. I'll lose the will to live. Not Arthur." He chokes and lowers his head. "Anyone but Arthur."

"Francis…"

"I'm not strong enough to fall in love again, Gilbert. I won't allow myself to love Arthur. I can't. I won't survive another heartbreak. Especially not one with him."

Gilbert sighs and slumps against the wall too. "But it's not like you don't already love him. Once again, Franny, don't insult my intelligence. Or eyesight. Thank you."

"Shut up," Francis says weakly.

"I mean," Gilbert goes on, ignoring Francis's comment, "You two are so…so…" he flails his hands about, looking for the right words, "You two are a couple. Maybe not officially, but it's so fucking obvious. You even kiss and have sex and hold hands and everything. You just need to own up to the fact and accept it. You love him."

"But I can't accept it! That's what I'm saying!"

"Why not?" and there's steel in Gilbert's eyes.

"I just told you –"

"Because you're a coward?"

"Yes."

"I can't accept that."

"It's none of your damn business, Gilbert. I don't care whether or not you accept it."

"Heh. Fair enough. But god, Francis, _you _can't accept that. You can't possibly hate yourself that much."

Francis picks at his sleeves and doesn't look at the other man. "I've never really liked myself very much."

"I know. But this is just plain stupidity. It's like when you're hungry, there's a plate of really good food in front of you, but you're still saying, _no, I can't eat because the food might give me food poisoning_. You don't even know if the food's going to give you food poisoning! It's probably just going to satisfy your hunger. That's what food is supposed to do, for fuck's sake."

"That is actually a very interesting analogy."

"Don't change the subject."

"Gil…"

"Francis, look, I know you don't like yourself, so forget it. Who cares about your happiness? Fuck that. Think about Arthur. He went to another country because you hurt him that badly. He's probably curled up in some lame little apartment in London, crying into a body pillow that's shaped like you. This is _Arthur_ we're talking about. It's highly unlikely that he's found another boyfriend already."

"He already has one named Alfred. So he says, anyway," Francis mumbles. "I've never believed it."

Gilbert chuckles softly but says nothing.

"I think I'd be rather annoyed if he actually had a boyfriend," Francis adds, his voice barely audible.

"That's sort of selfish, isn't it?" Gilbert sounds like he's trying to make a point. "You sleep with anyone."

"It never means anything. But being in a relationship is different. I'd hate for Arthur to have a boyfriend and still sleep with me."

"Because you're already the boyfriend," Gilbert mutters. "You've always been."

Francis is crying again. "I really, really can't accept that."

Gilbert lets out another hollow chuckle. "The funniest part of this situation? You've already accepted it. You've accepted it a very long time ago. But the idea still scares you."

"I don't think I'll ever stop being scared."

"You never know until you try."

* * *

"Your fiancé has been sitting alone at that table for over twenty minutes."

"Shit. I'm going in. You coming?"

"Yes. Yes, I just need a moment to collect myself."

"All right. Well, I'll see you in a few minutes, then."

"Gilbert, wait."

"What?"

"You're not a 'thick-as-a-brick' person. You're actually rather sensitive, you know?"

"Oh please. You don't have to say that. It's not like I want to be sensitive or whatever. You're sensitive. So is Toni. Look how fucked up the two of you are."

A laugh. "Touché."

* * *

"Alice, I've just sent you the email – you know, the one with the most recent edits – the Johnson manuscript."

"Ah, yes. Just received it, Mr. Kirkland."

"Good. Just keep a copy of that with you. Has George called yet?"

"He just did. He's got some ideas for the cover he wanted you to look at."

"Right. Tell him to email those to me and send over a copy to Mr. Johnson."

"Of course, sir."

"I'm stepping out to get a sandwich. Would you like something?"

"Oh no, thank you. I'm fine."

"Very well. I'll see you in ten minutes."

It's not raining today. But the sky is overcast. It's always overcast. That's just how London is to him. Arthur crosses the road. He feels no happier, really. In fact, these days, he feels even worse. At least in Paris, there was Francis.

There's a café across the office Arthur frequently haunts. He picks up a roll wrapped in cling foil, and doesn't quite taste it as he chews. His eyes turn to the clouds again, and to no-one in particular, mutters, "I hope I haven't forgotten my umbrella at home."

The rain in London dampens his spirit.

The rain in Paris always reminds him of Francis's laugh.

* * *

_See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!__  
__Descending Gods have found Elysium here.__  
__In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,__  
__And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.__  
__Come lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,__  
__When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow'rs;__  
__When weary reapers quit the sultry field,__  
__And crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.__  
__This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,__  
__But in my breast the serpent Love abides.__  
__Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,__  
__But your Alexis knows no sweets but you._

_-Summer by Alexander Pope (an excerpt) _

* * *

Francis loves summer. Perhaps more than spring. He loves how the sun gets warmer and fiercer. Spring often reminds him of teenage romance. The sort of thing that is pleasant and fleeting. The sort of thing that people write novels about and then eventually grow out of. Necessary? Perhaps. But not resilient.

But summer is different. Summer holds. Summer drinks in and fastens him. It gives him stability, lights him up from inside and dries each tear from his cheeks. He loves how the colours seem sharper. Spring is mild in comparison. But the summer sun makes nature want to show off everything she's got. It's amazing how plush and healthy the trees look. It's amazing, the colour of the sky.

It's just amazing.

The newspapers are as depressing as ever. That's never going to change. He reads them anyway, just for something to do. There aren't too many diners here today. It's odd. The tourists haven't all left yet, have they?

But maybe a bit of silence is nice, now and then. He's sitting at one of the unoccupied tables indoors, a cup of coffee steaming away near his hands. But Francis is too engrossed in an article about crop failure to register the slight footsteps. If it's another customer, well, Francis has employees to handle it. That's why he pays them.

This crop failure sounds bad, though. The price of tomatoes is going to skyrocket (poor Toni will suffer, whenever he comes to visit). Perhaps he'll have to adjust the prices of the foods that include tomatoes, just for a short while. Well, he'll have to wait first, he'll have to study how bad the inflation is. Hopefully it's manageable, because he hates increasing the rates in his restaurant. He charges exorbitantly anyway. Any higher and he'll start losing customers.

Someone clears their throat.

Francis looks up. And blinks.

"You look well."

"You're a hallucination," is the first thing Francis blurts. Arthur stares blankly back at Francis and then his face contorts to a frown.

"I'm not a bloody halluci – Francis," he stops himself, the smallest smile reaching his face. "I'm back. How have you been?"

Francis slowly lowers the newspaper. There is something inside him telling him that he should react wildly. Either jumping up and embracing Arthur, or punching him in the nose. But he just…can't. He feels strangely numb. He hasn't quite registered what the hell is going on.

Arthur takes the initiative, then, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of Francis. Absently, Francis notes that this was the same table they sat at before Arthur had stormed out and disappeared to another country.

"Arthur," Francis manages after an extended silence. He still can't believe it.

"I literally just stepped out of the airport. All my luggage is still in the taxi. It's waiting outside with the meter still running, but…I…I guess I just felt like coming here first."

"What are you doing here?" Why is he reacting so slowly?

Arthur smiles sadly and looks away. "I didn't like London as much as I like Paris. So I worked for six months, just like contract had asked me to, and I returned." He dares looking at Francis now. "Are you mad?"

What on earth would Francis be mad about? The fact is, so much keeps happening between them that if he were to pick a fight about one thing, it would inevitably lead to World War Three.

But still. Francis feels like this isn't something he can just ignore anymore. It honestly never was. But summer gives him perspective. Time away from Arthur has helped. Besides…Francis is as tired as Arthur looks.

They're both exhausted, but the game is still on.

Someone's got to put their foot down. And if it started with Francis, he might as well try and end it.

"Why don't you pay the taxi?" Francis suggests gently. "I'll drop you home in my car."

* * *

Arthur's house is threadbare. It always was, but now it looks barren and awful. The people he'd rented the place out to had left last week, taking all their belongings with them. It's empty. He's going to have to fill it up with his stuff soon. Houses without the homely feeling are just terrifying.

But for now, Francis and Arthur sit on the couch, surrounded with six months worth of luggage and a long, tired, pleasant silence.

At least it feels pleasant to Arthur. It's all he can do to stop himself from wrapping his arms around the man. He's missed Francis. He's missed Francis so much.

"Why did you really come back?" Francis asks finally, leaning against the back of the couch and staring at the ceiling.

"You know why."

"Tell me again."

"Because _je t'aime_. And that's never going to change."

Francis sighs.

"You don't love me back. I know. So really, coming back to Paris was a bad idea. But I figured that if I'm going to be miserable and lonely anyway, I might as well be miserable and lonely in the city of love. I like the irony of that."

"Yes, Arthur, one ought to make important decisions based on the poetic irony of a situation. And you're supposed to be the rational one."

Arthur laughs. Once more, it sounds empty. Can't he ever laugh with Francis and have that sound filled with actual joy? Just once?

Francis laughs too.

And then pulls Arthur into a hug.

They stay like that for a while.

* * *

"I threw out your table," Francis confesses after he's helped Arthur unpack.

"What?"

"Your table? I threw it out. I thought you were never coming back."

Arthur turns away. "Oh."

Francis smiles softly. "It's all right. I'll carve your name out on another one. On the same table location as before. I know you like that spot."

* * *

They're in Francis's apartment now, curled up on his couch, just holding each other. Just holding each other and stealing kisses because the two of them _need _this.

That night, they talk. It's a conversation long overdue.

* * *

"Did going to London give you some perspective?"

"Some perspective on _what_, pray tell?"

"I don't know." Francis just waves his hand around sleepily. "It always happens in the movies, doesn't it? Separation makes people see sense?"

"I was never confused anyway. I've loved you for a long time. I got over my confusion years ago."

They stare at the ceiling fan in Francis's bedroom. The sex tonight was something…more. More significant, somehow.

"You're not recoiling," Arthur says softly.

"Hmm?"

"Before. When I told you I loved you, you'd always recoil and brush me off. You're not doing that any more, are you?"

"I suppose I'm not," Francis replies simply, letting that sentence hang.

"Does that mean…do you love me?" Arthur's never one for understatement. Francis knows that. Francis also knows that he owes Arthur. He owes him too much.

Francis doesn't reply. He's just sort of…numb. For how many months had he been formulating a response to that statement? How many ways has he tried to deny it? Francis is sucked dry of creative excuses.

"I guess on some level, I always have loved you."

"Huh."

Francis snorts. Trust Arthur to have the most atypical response.

"What's so funny?"

"You. You're always so funny."

"Be quiet, Francis. We're having a moment here."

Francis chuckles some more. "All right, all right. Sorry."

There's another extended silence. "Are we going to do anything about this?" Arthur asks simply. And then he sighs. He sounds sad and exhausted again. "Francis, I don't mind waiting. I've done it for so long anyway. I used to do all sorts of odd things to get you to _feel _for me, including making up a fake boyfriend – yes, I'm talking about Alfred – to get you jealous."

"I knew it," Francis mutters. "I knew he was fake!"

"Whatever," Arthur retorts, closing his eyes. "You have a hard time trusting people, don't you?"

"You know I do."

"So I can wait. I can wait until you trust me enough to let me love you the way I want to. But Francis, please, _please _tell me how long I'll be waiting. Because I don't have the strength to hold on anymore. I don't have that much hope or optimism left in me. I need you, now. I need you to comfort me and to tell me that it'll be okay, because at this point, I'm not sure anymore. I've got nothing left. Not even my job. I need you to comfort my fears. I _need _you, Francis. Because I can't do this alone anymore."

"Oh, Arthur…" Francis turns on his side, looking at him in the pale light from the streetlamp outside. He reaches out and wipes a tear slipping down the man's face. "How do you still want me? After all I've put you through? Hmm?"

"I don't know," Arthur answers honestly.

Francis sighs and motions for Arthur to come even closer. Until they're in each other's arms and Arthur is softly sniffling into Francis's chest. "I owe you such a huge apology. For everything."

"It doesn't matter," Arthur mumbles.

"Your feelings matter, _cher_."

"They don't. I'm fine. I can handle it."

"No, you can't. You shouldn't have to."

"Just tell me how much longer I'll be waiting."

Francis just 'hmm's.

"What does that mean?"

"I need time."

"I know." Arthur pulls away to look Francis in the eye. "I just need to know how long."

"A few months. Maybe a year." Francis isn't sure anymore, either. How can anyone just put a date on these things?

"I can live with that," Arthur says simply.

"I love you. I know I've never behaved as though I have, Arthur, but I do. But you _can't _hurt me. Please don't hurt me. I won't pull through, this time."

"I won't hurt you," Arthur promises quietly.

_I know you won't._

* * *

There's just something about autumn that Arthur's always enjoyed. He's all for poetry, and there has to be something verbose and graceful in every leaf that flutters to the ground. For Arthur, it's also the most difficult time of the year. Because if he's going to be poetic about it, then autumn is the season when the decay sets in. That's the worst. Winter is still bearable, because after the cold comes the sun and life. But there's seldom anything to look forward to with the fall.

He hugs himself tighter as he briskly walks down the street, keeping his head down to avoid the wind from going into his eyes. Francis is waiting for him at the end of the road, two shopping bags in his hands.

"Whatever took you so long?" he chides as Arthur approaches.

"I couldn't find any parking. It was a nightmare. I had to park the car two streets away."

Francis rolls his eyes, but he smiles. "I have all the groceries. Are you going to help me lay the table? Antonio's flight is tomorrow, but Gilbert and Maddie are coming over for dinner tonight."

"Yeah, I'll help." They walk in comfortable silence. These silences are different, lighter, more relaxing. And they come more often these days. Arthur really likes them. "Antonio must be really excited about seeing Lovino again, huh?"

"I couldn't get him to shut up about it on the phone the other day," Francis laughs. "He's so cute. Of course, you're cuter, _mon cher_."

"And my friends have the added advantage that I would never gush about you on the phone to them."

"Really, now? Shall we call up Alfred and ask him?"

"Do what you want."

But perhaps autumn has a sense of continuity to it. Some circle-of-life kind of thing. Arthur can philosophise about this all day.

"Do you want to go on a date with me sometime?" Arthur asks mildly, as he does at least once in three weeks.

Francis laughs quietly. "Wait just a little longer. Just a little bit longer."

He's used to hearing that, but it really doesn't bother him. Whatever Francis says, the two of them _are _together. It might not be official to everyone else, but it is to them.

"Let's just get out of the cold. At this rate, I'm going to get the flu."

"I'll make you chicken soup if that happens," Francis promises with another laugh.

"With tea?"

"Earl Grey, two sugars."

"Then I don't half mind."

It's been a long year, from autumn to autumn. Arthur's just glad that everyone made it through to the other side, all their broken pieces differently put together. He can't ask for perfect relationships. But he doesn't mind the cold little cracks and dents. Not when there is that warm promise of tomorrow.

* * *

**A/N: Isn't it funny that the extra, unnecessary chapter is longer than the actual chapters of the fic? xD But I just **_**HAD **_**to write this, you don't understand. **

**F.Y.I, I am still on hiatus. Although it seems like I don't know how to **_**not **_**write. Which would be really great and something I would brag about, except that life has piled up seven years worth of homework on my desk and I've somehow got to finish all of it before February ends. **

**On that note, I better go. I have three exams tomorrow and I'm probably going to fail all of them :'D **

_**Keep your eyes out for the first chapter of a Spamano fic I'm working on (the title is still tentative, so I won't reveal it). But hopefully, it'll be out soon. Because I don't know how to shut up and my priorities are a mess. :D**_


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